


A Very Freaky Friday

by JenniferNapier



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Swap, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Dani kicks ass, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Feels, Fluff and Crack, Freaky Friday - Freeform, Fun, Gen, Humor, Malcolm has a very bad day, Malcolm in prison, Martin Escapes, Martin is free, Mr. David needs a pay raise, Mr. David needs a vacation, switch - Freeform, switch bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 31,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: Malcolm Bright and Martin Whitly switch bodies. What follows is one hell of a prince and the pauper story.
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Martin Whitly, Dani Powell & Martin Whitly, Gil Arroyo & Martin Whitly, Jessica Whitly & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Mr. David | Martin Whitly's Guard, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell, Mr. David | Martin Whitly's Guard & Martin Whitly
Comments: 103
Kudos: 108





	1. The Switch

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this would be a fun fic to write, and I was right. I have had a ton of fun writing this, and I hope others have fun reading it as well.

It started with an argument.

It was an argument that took place inside Claremont Psychiatric Hospital. Specifically, inside Dr. Whitly’s cell. It was an argument between a father and a son, and it escalated further than any of their many previous arguments had ever escalated before. It was fueled by both of their volatile stubbornness, until the two men were shouting at each other from across the painted red line on the ground. However, it was an argument that neither cared to remember after _it_ happened.

The ‘ _switch.’_

It happened when the lights went out. The entire room --and the hallway outside the door-- blinked into darkness. A low hum, or zap, or even a rumble resonated through the air. They could have sworn the building trembled, like Malcolm's hands usually did --though it happened so quickly, it was difficult to process what exactly occurred.

All they could process (and that was quite a stretch of the word) was that once the lights blinked back on, they were looking at themselves --as if in a mirror. In perfect synchrony, they looked down at their own hands, which were no longer their own, then back up at each other, which were now indeed _themselves,_ and screamed.

Their screams tore through their vocal chords, each not their own, and each powerful enough to wake the dead.

Malcolm --who was no longer himself-- looked down at the handcuffs around his wrists, the soft cardigan hanging from his shoulders, and the white inmate uniform over his broad chest. As he did this, a beard that did not belong to him scratched lightly against his neck. He continued screaming between hyperventilated breaths.

Dr. Whitly --who was also no longer himself-- froze in a fearful tension and watched his spitting image panic before his eyes. Then, he too glanced down at his new self. He was in a pressed suit, a tie was fastened securely against his neck, and the only thing around his wrist was an expensive watch. As his eyes darted to the red line between them, he realized that he was on the _other_ side of it.

Mr. David burst into the room, saying something about the power being back on, or that a fuse must have blown, and that it was nothing to freak out about. Neither of the other two men heard him. The security guard’s patient was still screaming.

A frantic litany of “Oh my God,” “Holy shit,” and “What the fuck happened,” paired with “What the hell is going on?” flew from what appeared to be Dr. Whitly’s mouth. Each phrase seemed to frighten him more, because the voice coming out of his throat was not the one he should have been hearing as he spoke.

However, the young man who appeared to be Malcolm didn’t say a word, watching as Mr. David tried to calm his patient.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. There’s nothing to be--”

“It’s _not_ okay! It’s not okay at _all!”_ the false Dr. Whitly retorted in a panic, his eyes wild and his grey hair extra unruly.

Meanwhile, the false Malcolm started to calm from his stunned fright, and risked a quiet, “I… I think I’d like to go... _home,_ now.”

It was then that the _true_ Malcolm was hit by the heavy realization that this strange phenomenon hadn't just affected him, but had affected The Surgeon, too. At the moment, the _true_ Dr. Whitly was entirely free to ‘go home.’ The profiler looked up with horror in his eyes, which were now his father’s, and barked a firm, _“NO!”_ in his father’s terrible voice.

Mr. David nodded over his shoulder to their guest. “Go on, kid, I’ll handle this.”

The false Malcolm hesitantly grinned.

The false Dr. Whitly vehemently protested, “No, absolutely not, he’s staying right here!”

“Martin, we’ve been over this,” Mr. David murmured.

Though it didn’t seem possible, the true Malcolm’s panic multiplied. “No, you don’t understand!” he spewed quickly, raising his cuffed hands to plead with the guard and point at his disguised father. _“That’s_ Martin, now!”

The disguised serial killer inched closer to the door as if he feared that moving too quickly would break a spell that had been inexplicably cast over them by some fairy godmother.

The equally disguised (but much less happy about it) profiler moved to get around the security guard, but a sudden _tug_ around his waist startled him. He whirled around to notice the tether attached to him, chaining him to the back wall of the cell. “No, no, no _nononono._ Get this off me!” he fiddled desperately with the belt around his waist, but there was a padlock on it. His handsy exploration of the unfamiliar device grew more violent. “Get this _OFF ME!!”_ he roared.

“Martin, stop it,” Mr. David ordered.

“I’M _NOT_ MARTIN!” Dr. Whitly screamed, hopelessness settling in his bones. _“HE’S_ MARTIN!”

Malcolm enjoyed watching this, but he did step more boldly towards the door, drawn to it with an irresistible magnetism. “Well, I’ll be... _going_ then.”

 _“Dad,_ don’t you _dare!”_ Dr. Whitly hissed with hatred in his watery eyes. “Don’t you _fuckin’_ dare!”

Mr. David donned his ‘not playing around’ voice. “Martin, _enough.”_

Behind the guard’s back, Malcolm scrunched his nose and whispered, “Bye, son.”

“NO! No! David, _stop him!”_ Dr. Whitly erupted.

“You need to _calm down.”_ Mr. David brought his hands up to hold the man’s shoulders, but the inmate struggled against him. _“Last warning,_ Doctor Whitly!”

The false Malcolm turned his back and left, smiling all the way as he freely walked down the hall.

 _“Stop him! STOP HIM!”_ The true Malcolm’s desperation spurred him to fight with the security guard, using all of his strength --which he found he had a surprising amount of-- but Mr. David was bigger, and stronger, and he had an electric taser-- which he used.


	2. Out With The Old

The  _ real  _ Malcolm knew the path from his father’s cell to the front gate of Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, but the false one did not. It felt strange asking another guard how to get to the asylum’s entrance, but the guard didn’t seem to think it was a strange question, and gladly told him the way. ‘Malcolm’ grinned, thanked him, and tried to keep a smug expression locked within him as he followed the nice man’s instructions through the unfamiliar halls of the first floor.

He appeared very much like a child who had just stolen a forbidden cookie from a cookie jar and was hiding it somewhere on his person. He passed through the metal detectors with a tightly-closed smile stuck on his face. The detector did beep, giving him a fright, but it was only because of his watch and his belt buckle. The guards waved him through without a second glance at him.

No sirens blared. No security officers rushed him, intent on executing an NFL-worthy tackle. No spell was broken. The disguised Surgeon simply  _ walked out of prison. _

Almost.

“Mister Bright.”

Martin almost forgot that was his name, now. His  _ son’s  _ name. The  _ new  _ one he’d made up, to replace their shared one.

“Uh, yes?” he hesitantly turned around, his heart racing and his adrenaline pumping.

The guard held a shallow bin out to him. In it was a phone, a wallet, and a key ring. “Your things.”

“Oh, right,” Malcolm’s face lit up as he took the gifts. “Thank you. Uh… I almost forgot.” he chuckled timidly. Then the false profiler looked down at the items in his hands, awkwardly pocketed them, and left the building.

The sunlight and fresh air rejuvenated his soul. He felt as giddy as a school boy, but tried to keep it together as he wandered down the sidewalk in a dreamy daze. He scoured the block, clicking the ‘unlock’ button on his son’s keys until he found the car that responded to it. It was a  _ very  _ nice car.

Inside Malcolm's wallet was his credit card, NYPD Consultant identification badge, and of course, his driver’s license, which bore his home address.

Dr. Whitly used every single one of those items.


	3. In With The New

As Malcolm regained the first threads of his consciousness, he assumed that it had all simply been a dream. A very bad dream, like his night terrors, which felt all too real, and which he couldn’t wake up from until his body mercifully allowed him to. Luckily, it seemed his body was beginning to do just that.

Soon, he could see the darkness behind his eyelids and he felt a bed against his back, affirming his theory that it had all just been a dream. But as more of his awareness flooded back to him, he doubted it to be, then  _ prayed  _ for it to be. When he dared to open his eyes and blink up at the ceiling above him, he did not recognize it.

He was still in the cell.

“Oh my God.”

He was still his father.

What was worse; his father was  _ him. _ And he was out  _ there. _

Malcolm slowly sat up in his father’s cot, realizing how uncomfortable its old springs were. His hands were still cuffed together and the tether was still attached to the belt around his waist. He winced as he touched the tender spot on his ribs where he’d been tased. As he carefully rose to his feet, the room spun.

He cautiously took a few steps away from the bed, squinting through his headache and trying to spot Mr. David outside of the room. The guard was nowhere to be seen, not that he could see very much from his limited vantage point.

Of course, Malcolm knew that Mr. David wasn’t always  _ right _ beside his father, but the complete lack of having anybody else around made him anxious. He did not want to be left alone with his new self in that cell. He tried calling for the guard, unnerved by his father’s voice coming from his mouth. But only silence answered him.

He turned to examine the objects that detained him, searching for any weakness in their connections that he could manipulate to free himself. It was all in vain. If there was anything waiting to be taken advantage of, it would have been taken advantage of long, long ago.

He had no way to escape. No one to call upon for help. He felt very, very alone, and very, very scared.


	4. The Penthouse

Dr. Whitly’s smug grin radiated with delight. He strolled along the busy sidewalk with a princely swagger to his youthful walk. He was as happy as a clam to be out on the filthy New York streets again. The trash, the traffic, the stench, the humidity. The sea of people, who were all so unique and interesting to him. It was all so wonderful, in a dirty, sinister way. A few passersby returned his beaming smile --usually women. A charming wink caused a group of teenage girls to giggle and stare after him as he sauntered onward down the street, and their humorous reaction made him feel very powerful and handsome indeed. The city bustled with life, and his heart bustled with a renewed vitality in tandem. God, he’d missed this. Being alive. Being young. Being free.

Whatever the hell happened when the power went out in Claremont, it was the best thing to ever happen to him. Besides his children, of course.

As he came to a certain door, he stopped to glance up at the tower-like building it was attached to. The half-circle window at the top of the edifice was reminiscent of an observatory look-out. Martin double-checked the address on his son’s --now his-- driver’s license. It was definitely the right address. He tried a few different keys to coax the lock open, until he found the one that allowed him to slip inside.

He took the stairs two at a time with ease, thanks to the spirited spring in his step. Clearly, Malcolm kept his body in great shape. Lots of cardio, Martin supposed, chasing after criminals day in and day out.

Well, he wouldn't be doing that anymore, would he?

Martin’s grin wavered as he reached the top step. Did Malcolm live with anyone? Roommates? A girlfriend? He had no clue, but he was certainly about to find out. He prepared a cover story; forgot to grab something before heading out, or left a note somewhere that he needed to remember. Either of those would work, and it would also give him an excuse to do some poking around without causing any suspicion.

He feigned a sense of belonging and entered the penthouse without hesitation. His fearless stride slowed as he looked around, taking in every detail about the unfamiliar space. There were no women’s shoes, jackets, or purses by the door --nor any pairs of men’s shoes or jackets that differed from Malcolm's size. There was no indication of any housemates at all, as far as Martin could tell.

Still, he called out a curious, “Hello?”

No one answered him.

Martin relaxed, and continued his exploration.

The penthouse was nice. Spacious. Modern, yet industrial. Immaculately clean, and border-line minimalist. The windows were tall and fogged with age. The hardwood floors were only slightly worn, and the rustic red brick gave it a charming character. The iron stairs which rose further up into some sort of attic space were imposing and grand, in a grungy sort of way. And that kitchen! It was fit to host one of Jessica’s ridiculously extravagant parties --though it was immediately clear that Malcolm never used it. Dr. Whitly chuckled at the jar of licorice on the counter. Malcolm had always loved licorice as a treat when he was a boy. Never grew out of it, it seemed. Now it appeared to be a staple of his diet, since the refrigerator was as empty as the showroom appliances sold in department stores.

Being someone who had been confined to a single room for twenty years, Martin found that the open floor plan was very refreshing. Accidentally, he also found a pair of shackles --which were attached to his son’s bed frame. He smirked wickedly while he caressed the chains, admiring their quality and finding humor in what he assumed to be his offspring’s very ironic bedroom kink.

Martin then spotted some red cabinetry across the flat which held… weaponry. His eyes lit up like a child who had just passed the window of a candy store, and he was instantly --irresistibly-- drawn towards the cabinets.

“Wow,” he drawled to himself, taking in the sight of the magnificent displays. “And they called me a fanatic.” He marveled at them for a moment, then opened a cabinet and took out a cutlass. Wrapping one hand around the guarded handle, and running the other delicately along the old steel blade, he was somewhat disappointed to find that it was not as sharp as he’d hoped it to be. However, it was most definitely authentic, and most definitely from the European 1800’s.

A shrill sound startled him, and he whirled around to identify a parakeet in a cage.

Dr. Whitly smiled through his son’s teeth and lips. “Why, hello.”

After placing the antique sword back in the cabinet, he stepped over to the twittering animal’s cage. “Are you Malcolm's little friend?”

The colorful bird grew increasingly frenzied as the predatory stranger came closer to it.

He chuckled. “Well, I’m glad you’re not a dog.”

“It’s alright, little one,” he crooned, lifting the latch on the tiny barred door. The bird struggled against the far wall, shrieking and fluttering as he reached his hand inside. There was nowhere to fly. 

“Such a tiny thing, making such a big fuss.”

As he carefully curled his fingers around its fragile, feathered body, it latched onto him with its itty bitty beak. He only found it humorous; how valiantly the minuscule critter fought. He cupped it in his hands, folding its wings to its body and easily enduring its pinching bites, which weren’t quite strong enough or sharp enough to draw blood.

Martin brought it out of the cage and held the small thing against his chest, shushing it while calmly pacing around the study like it was a crying infant that needed to be soothed back to sleep. He felt its miniature heart pounding furiously against the skin of his fingers, its miniature lungs heaving with every terrified breath. He ran his thumb along the soft neon feathers of its back in a gentle, repeated motion.

Soon, its desperate and panicked noises quieted.

“There you are. See? It’s not so bad,” he murmured, holding it up to look at its tiny face. “Are you calmed down, now?” He curled one index finger beneath it for its feet to grab onto, and when the creature did grab onto it, he slowly removed his fingers from around its body. The parakeet perched on his finger for only a split second of hesitation before taking the opportunity to flee. It burst away with a battering of its small wings, shrieking once again as it zipped off to some hiding place in the higher reaches of the apartment.

Martin smiled as he watched its escape. “Guess not.” He left the cage door open and filled the tins with fresh water and colorful food pellets.

It would come back. Eventually.

Like his little boomerang.


	5. The Plea

There was no clock in Dr Whitly’s cell. Malcolm had no idea how much time had passed since The Switch. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious from the taser. He had no idea how long he’d been lying there on his father’s old cot, waiting for any sign of Mr. David’s return.

He’d already tried calling for the guard. Screaming for him, even. He’d been met with no answer. His voice, which was actually his father’s, and which he so hated to hear in place of his own, was hoarse from all the screaming. He’d already had two panic attacks --perhaps technically three-- and he’d already suffered through quite an existential mental and emotional crisis.

Now, he was just numb.

He was all alone in that cell. He was surrounded by a serial killer’s possessions. He was trapped in a serial killer’s body.

And he had no idea how he was going to get out.

He startled as a distant door unlocked. Sitting up eagerly, he tried to see out past the old foggy windows of the room. Another door unlocked with a harsh buzz. This time, it was his father’s cell door. As he rose to his feet, Mr. David stepped into the room.

“Oh, thank God you’re here,” Malcolm exhaled gratefully. “Where were you? How long--?”

“Just a couple hours,” Mr. David sighed, folding his arms. “I went to go talk to your psychiatrist about your meds.”

Malcolm was unable to ignore the wave of dread that washed over him. His father could do so much damage in ‘just a couple hours.’

“Now, he says they didn’t change any of your prescriptions, so I ask you this; What the hell has gotten into you, Martin?”

Malcolm shook his head, winced, and testified, “I told you… I’m not Martin, I’m Mal--” But he stopped himself.

Mr. David was giving him a look. It was one that asked, ‘this again?’ It was a look that was filled with disappointment, but worse than that, it was a look that was filled with disbelief.

“You’re talkin’ like a crazy person,” the guard scolded. He added, “I mean, more than usual.”

“I’m not--” Malcolm stopped himself again.

Maybe he was.

He took a breath and pleaded, “I don’t know why. I don’t know how. I don’t know what happened, but David, please, you’ve gotta believe me, I--” He suddenly let out a curt laugh. It was a very inappropriate time to laugh, and it did not help support his claim that he wasn't crazy, especially since it was his father’s laugh, but Malcolm couldn’t help it. He was at his breaking point. “I know it sounds insane, I know. But it’s true. I swear to God, it’s true.”

Mr. David arched a brow, but listened politely.

Malcolm finished, “Somehow, I have switched… places, with my father.”

Damn. He did sound crazy.

“You’ve gone off the deep end, that’s what,” Mr. David retorted placidly. He turned to leave.

“NO! Pleasepleaseplease!” Malcolm started forward, then reminded himself that the last thing he should do was make any sudden, aggressive movements. He forced himself to shrink back, and again pleaded, “I need your help. David, you’re the only one who can help me.”

Mr. David gave him another dull look. “I’ve heard enough, Martin.”

“I can prove it to you!” Malcolm blurted.

He then realized that he had to. Somehow. It would be the only way to convince the man what had happened. But the profiler most likely had only one chance to succeed. “I can prove it to you, just…” he wracked his tortured, exhausted, foggy mind.

Malcolm hardly knew the guard. He didn’t even know his full name. He’d only seen him on the rare occasion that he visited his father, and even then, sometimes Mr. David was off-duty.

“Um… Ask me something. Something only I-- uh, only Malcolm would know,” the concealed consultant requested.

Mr. David’s deadpan expression said he wasn't going to play this game.

“Come on, I….” Malcolm had to come up with something, and fast. Then, he remembered something he could use. His face lit up. “I know Fredrick, the guard at the front gate. His birthday is today. He’s wearing one of those blue ribbons that says ‘happy birthday’ on it. His daughter gave it to him. Dr. Whitly wouldn’t know that!”

Mr. David faced him and folded his arms again, perturbed. “No, but apparently, he does, and that’s a real concern. Who told you all that, Martin?”

“I’m not--!” Malcolm sighed, explaining, “No one told me! I talked to Fred when I came in and handed over my stuff.”

It was clear that the profiler’s attempt was unsuccessful. It also dawned on him that his father had been handed his stuff. His phone. His keys. His wallet. His I.D.

And his NYPD badge.

The color drained from his face. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.

Mr. David shook his head and turned around to leave. Malcolm moved after him, battling with his desperation while trying his best to appear non-threatening. “Wait! Wait, please!”

The terror of being left alone in that godforsaken cell nearly crippled him. In this cell, he would be ignored, neglected, and helpless, for an unbearably unknown amount of time --with nobody there to help him.

He needed somebody --anybody-- to help him.

And more importantly, to stop The Surgeon.

“I need to call someone. Please, at least let me call someone,” he begged.

He didn’t know who he’d call. His mother flashed into his mind, but that was only due to his instincts defaulting to seeking a reliable parent in a time of need. He had to make a logical and strategic phone call, because again, he’d likely only get one chance at success. Gil then instantly rose up in his mind as his best source for aid. Yes, he would call Gil. Gil would help him. And Gil would stop his father from doing what Malcolm _knew_ he was going to do.

He only prayed that Gil would pick up the call.

“Phone time has passed. No calls after five o’clock. You know that.”

It was already after five?? Malcolm gripped his hair. But it was not his hair. It was curly, and grey, and textured differently. He took his hands away from his head and stepped forward again. “No, I need a phone, please.” The belt tugged at his waist, notifying him of it’s boundary.

“Tomorrow,” Mr. David assured, opening the cell door. The red steel slowly yawned open --torturously wide. But Malcolm was unable to go through it.

This couldn’t wait until tomorrow. “David, it’s a matter of life and death!” he cried.

The guard ignored him.

“Don’t go! David, don’t go!”

Watching powerlessly as his only visitor abandoned him without even a goodbye, Malcolm felt an overwhelming surge of hopelessness --and awareness. This was what his father felt, he realized, undoubtedly every single time someone left him in that cell. Malcolm’s mind struggled to think straight as his emotions, stress, and fear consumed him.

The door closed.

The electronic click of the lock had never sounded so damning to him before.


	6. Cutlery

The cage was still empty.

A small, hollow, avian bone snapped under the heel of a sharp steel blade. Then, another bone snapped --twig-like. And another.

A dismembered carcass lay strewn across the cutting board. The poultry meat was soft, pink, and plump. A thigh here, a breast there. A pair of little taloned feet.

When it was alive (and in one piece,) it had been a chicken. The parakeet was still hiding in the rafters. The previously-noisy creature was now dead silent, as if holding its tiny breath in terror of being discovered. Of being  _ next. _

But Martin doubted the animal had the mental capacity to understand what was happening down below --much less empathize with it or fear it. His son’s (now his) parakeet was more likely asleep, he assumed. Or perhaps it was gone entirely, having found a hole to slip out of, and was newly lost in the vast, disorienting Manhattan atmosphere.

He didn’t really care one way or the other.

Dr. Whitly continued preparing the chicken meat; separating it, slicing it, and placing it to one side of the cutting board. He gazed at it as he handled it; like an artist gazed at wet clay on a potter’s wheel --with equal parts scrutinous concentration and infatuated admiration. It was a very relaxing process for him, due in part to the classical music emanating from the stereo. It was the best therapy he’d had in years.

This glorious kitchen was just  _ dying _ for some attention. How could he resist giving it the tender loving care it deserved? The same went for the knife in his hands. He stood over a humble array of different blades, each best suited for a different purpose. Only a true butcher knew the variance between them, and knew how to use them to the best of their individual, unique ability. Sweeney Todd had called his blades his ‘friends,’ and Martin could relate. Maybe that should be his Halloween costume this year, though he no longer had the curly grey hair with the prominent white streak to pull it off.

Speaking of hair, Malcolm might be due for a haircut this week. Martin could see the ends of his bangs hanging in front of his eyes, and he frequently had to nudge them to the side with his cleanest knuckle or a jerk of his head, like a snobbish runway model. It humored him to think about how often his son did this throughout his day.

His carving knife followed the grain of the meat effortlessly --just as it was designed to do. Chicken was not a difficult organism to peel apart. He knew exactly where the muscle attached to the tendons, ligaments, and bone. He knew exactly which parts were which; which parts were worth keeping, and which parts were destined only to be discarded. He could do this with his eyes closed if he wanted to, but then he wouldn’t have the pleasure of watching the beauty of his work.

He smiled as he specifically watched his  _ son’s _ hands perform the beautiful work. Malcolm’s hands were  _ made _ for this, Dr. Whitly mused proudly. Malcolm’s digits were slightly thinner, longer, and maybe even more nimble than his own. Now, they were fueled by Dr. Whitly’s experience, and slaves to his transported muscle memory. They didn't tremble at all.

The knife moved within the organic matter in a choreographed dance. It was a performance that came naturally to Martin, and a performance that was more akin to a rehearsal.  _ Baby steps,  _ Martin told himself. Today, he’d work with mere chicken. Someday, he’d work with something far more exciting.

Someday soon.

He glanced over his shoulder as a docile  _ bzzt bzzt  _ alerted him to a text on Malcolm’s phone. After washing his hands, he dried them and stalked over to the glowing device. It beamed up onto his young, lightly-stubbled, smirking face, displaying a message from someone named,  _ 'Mom.' _

_ Remember dinner tonight. 7:00. Don’t be late. _

‘Malcolm’ grinned, and texted back...

_ I won’t. _


	7. Cut leery

The electronic door bellowed a harsh _bzzzzt_ as Mr. David unlocked it. The security guard stepped inside the cell and allowed the door to close and lock behind him. Dr. Whitly got up from his cot and stood at attention, much like a dog who had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of its beloved owner.

It was strange. Martin had only behaved that way during his first few years here.

“Time to go,” Mr. David murmured, gesturing for the man to come over to him.

Martin did come over to him, and when Mr. David’s keys jingled, he held his wrists up. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“You know where we’re going,” Mr. David answered carelessly. His charge had been looking forward to it all week.

The guard unlocked the handcuffs, but kept one ring fastened. He waited. Martin waited too, one hand hovering in the air like a half-strung puppet. After an awkward pause which impeded the usually-smooth process, Mr. David instructed, “Turn around,” like it had been the obvious thing for his patient to do.

“Oh.” Dr. Whitly turned around.

Mr. David guided his arm behind his back and then took his freed one, also drawing it back before locking the handcuffs around both of his wrists again. “We’ve been doing this dance for years, Martin.” It was a choreographed routine that should have come naturally to him.

“I--” Martin almost argued with him, but then decided against it.

Mr. David unlocked the padlock to his tethered belt, then removed it from his waist. He waited again, but Dr. Whitly didn’t move. “Now go stand over there,” he gestured back to the man’s cot. “You know this.” 

Martin walked back over towards his cot, protesting, “I really don’t.”

Mr. David gave him a dull, tired look as he coiled the tether, following it to the wall before stooping to detach it from the large eye hook embedded in the brick. He kept Dr. Whitly in his peripherals --as always-- but perhaps with more wariness than usual. He wasn't acting like himself at all today. He was acting clueless. If Martin was faking it, he was doing a remarkable job, but the more that Mr. David studied him and interacted with him, the less Mr. David believed he was faking it. 

The guard stood up with the coiled tether and waited again. Martin didn’t move. “Come on,” he beckoned. Martin came to him again, and the guard took his arm to lead him out of the room, setting the coiled tether on a shelf before leaving the hall.

Dr. Whitly even _walked_ differently. He allowed the security officer to lead, as if he didn't know where they were going. He did not anticipate the turns they made, and he did not keep in stride the same way he usually did. Normally, Mr. David had to rein the man slightly _back,_ warning him to slow down and not get too excited as they traveled through the halls to their destination. But now, Mr. David had to encourage the man to _keep up,_ and the doctor seemed entirely reliant on the guard’s guidance.

“Really, where are we going?” Martin asked.

“Your consultation,” Mr. David reminded him. “An SVR operation with Doctor Brewerton, remember?”

Martin furrowed his brow at him, alarmed. _“What?_ Like, a _surgical_ consultation?”

Mr. David furrowed his brow too. _“Yes,_ like a surgical con-- Have you lost your mind?”

Dr. Whitly reacted fearfully. He stiffened his legs, refusing to keep walking. “No, nonono, I can’t give a surgical consultation! I don’t know anything about surgery!”

Mr. David stopped with him and gawked, “What are you _talking_ about?” This was absolutely absurd. “I think you’ve suffered some _serious_ memory loss, Martin.” It was almost concerning.

Dr. Whitly winced as if hearing nails screech down a chalkboard. _“Please_ stop calling me that.”

If Mr. David hadn’t been busy keeping a tight hold of his patient's arm, he would have put his hands on his hips. “What _else_ do you want me to call you?” he asked, then warned, “And don’t you dare say ‘Malcolm.’”

Dr. Whitly glared at him, but it was clear he was trying very hard not to snap at him, nor panic. “I can’t do a consultation.”

“Yes, you can, and you will,” Mr. David declared firmly, much like a stubborn parent. “You’re not getting out of this.” Martin usually _lived_ for this. It was the most cherished privilege he had. It was the most effective reward to incentivize him into good behavior --but now he dreaded it? It didn’t make sense.

Mr. David was deaf to the man’s continued protestations, and for the first time, he practically had to drag his patient the rest of the way to the consultation.


	8. There's No Place Like Home

A sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb, gleaming beneath the city lights. Malcolm Bright stepped out of it, his head held high. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his long dark overcoat and stood in awe of the building he’d parked in front of.

It was his old home.

The clean marble stoop, the large double doors, the tall windows lit with a gentle glow from the other side of the drawn drapes, and the neatly-tucked trash bins behind a little wrought iron fence... it was all just as he remembered it. He grinned, taking it all in. He could have stared at that house forever, but a feminine voice interrupted his fond reminiscing.

“Hey, you.”

Malcolm turned to spot a young blonde marching toward him in a pair of designer heels. His smile widened further as he recognized her. “Ainsley!”

She smirked at him and greeted, “What are you doing here? Don’t you have like, a _cadaver_ to go poke around in or something?”

“Well. Not _at the moment,”_ he chuckled, grinning as he basked in the marvelous sight of her.

She chuckled too, elbowing his arm playfully. “Come on,” she smiled, starting up the front steps. “Mom will be glad to see you --for once in a blue moon.” She led the way inside, entirely unaware of who she was _actually_ inviting into their home.

“For once in a blue moon, indeed,” he murmured, following her up the steps.

Contrary to the exterior, the interior of the house was different from how he remembered it. He glanced around the foyer as if seeing it for the first time. At least, the first time in a long time. The first time since he’d been _arrested_ \--right there in front of those stairs. He stared at the spot, remembering that fateful night. Malcolm then surveyed the new wallpaper, furniture, and decor with a distant curiosity --and even a dash of humor. Jessie had clearly gone to great lengths to bury every lingering memory of her ex-husband. Yet there he stood, concealed in a different way. He was thoroughly buried --not beneath the new wallpaper-- but beneath the skin of their son.

“Darling!”

Malcolm’s smile brightened as he saw her. Jessica was just as dolled-up and exquisite as ever, with just enough down-to-earth affability in her character to be slightly more charming than intimidating.

“Hello, mother,” he purred warmly, playing the part with a devious smile.

She approached him with arms outstretched and a proud smile on her face. “I’m so glad you could make it, sweetheart.”

He closed his eyes as she embraced him, welcoming the pleasant atmosphere of her perfumed presence. A cruel, euphoric smile curled across his face as he accepted her oblivious affection, turning his head slightly into her shoulder. His touch on her back was minimal, and he reluctantly allowed her to separate from him as she ended their brief hug. But she kissed his cheek as she parted from him, causing him to glow with irony and triumph. He could perfectly picture the horrified look that would flash across her face had she known who he truly was. The fantasy highly entertained his imagination.

“How are you?”

“I’m _terrific,”_ he nodded slowly, his eyes sparkling as he met her compassionate gaze. He was doing his very best to manage his smile, but it was difficult to control its clownish size. 

His smile did not go unnoticed. As they took their seats in the grand dining room for dinner, Ainsley called him out on his unusual radiance. “Why are you so smiley today?” she asked, nearly scoffing. “Are you on crack again?”

Both Malcolm _and_ Jessica donned an expression of shock, glanced at her, and repeated in perfect unison, _“Again?”_

That was a story they _both_ wanted to hear. 

_“Malcolm!”_ Jessica hissed. “Have you been partaking in…?”

“No!” he yelped, then looked back at Ainsley with a worried, “Yes?”

Ainsley gave him a sisterly, cynical look which told him that she was not sorry for letting that detail slip in front of their mother, and that he was on his own in crafting his defense.

“Are you high?” Jessica interrogated, appalled. “Tell me the truth, young man.”

Even under the heat of the woman’s fiery scrutiny, Malcolm grinned from ear to ear, attesting, “No, no, I’m just… _happy!”_

“Oh,” Ainsley furrowed her brow. That was an even _stranger_ thing for her brother to be. “Well, good!” she decided, then grumbled playfully, “About time you cheered up.” 

Jessica seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and silently agreed with her daughter.

Ainsley saw nothing wrong with her brother’s uplifted mood. However, she squinted at him from across the table and shook her head, asking, “But, _why?”_

“I, uh….” Malcolm cast his eyes over the plate in front of him and chirped merrily, “Made a few changes in my life. _Big_ ones.”

“Like what?” Jessica asked, intrigued.

Malcolm loaded up his fork. “Well, for one... I am never, _ever_ going back to Claremont again,” he grinned up at the girls before taking a bite of the food he’d skewered.

“Praise the lord!” Jessica exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “I _told_ you, darling! Didn’t I tell him, Ains? As soon as you cut _all_ ties to your father, you are going to feel like a new man!” she declared proudly.

“Oh, I _do,”_ he hummed as he ate.

Ainsley wasn't as elated to hear that news as their mother was. The blonde’s brow was still furrowed, perhaps even more than before. “But… _why?”_ she asked again.

Malcolm didn’t seem to have an answer. He shrugged as he happily continued consuming the lavish dinner that had been prepared for them by the well-paid house staff.

“Ainsley, for the love of God, _please_ don’t make him reconsider,” Jessica groaned. She hurried onto the next topic of discussion; her endeavors to revive the family Foundation. Malcolm was dutifully interested in her most recent business deals, and proceeded to have a wonderful and thorough conversation with her about it.

The reporter kept her mouth shut, but she was put-off. She stared at her brother as the dinner went on, noticing how hungry he seemed to be.

Since when did Malcolm… _eat?_


	9. If I Only Had A Heart

The consultation room was similar to a board room, sans a table and chairs. A large projection screen made up almost the entire wall on the north side, and when the lights were off, it was the only source of illumination in the room. The screen displayed a video call between Claremont Psychiatric Hospital and whatever hospital Dr. Brewerton was operating in. An overhead camera was poised above Dr. Brewerton’s patient, whose chest was currently opened up. The gaping hole appeared much like a Mexican pit cave which only the bravest adventurers dove into. However, it wasn't all that deep, because the patient’s still-beating heart could clearly be seen on the wall-sized screen. Another stationary camera also participated in the video call, presenting a third-person view of the surgical team and general operating area. Dr. Brewerton’s voice spoke from the speakers, pointing out the flaws in his patient’s swollen, afflicted organ.

Dr. Whitly stood rigidly in the middle of the room, nervously massaging his knuckles in an attempt to stop his hands from trembling. 

Mr. David leaned against the wall in the background, watching his charge with a puzzled look on his face. Dr. Whitly usually walked back and forth across the room during these consultations; a predator pacing the glass edge of his cage. He usually took complete control over these operations, despite being miles away from them, like a remote army general giving commands to his troops with a hunger for battle burning in his eyes. He usually appeared like a giant, silhouetted against that screen. But now, he somehow looked small. And he didn’t say much at all.

“Martin,” Mr. David murmured.

Dr. Whitly glanced over his shoulder at the guard. There was a wretched and almost childlike look of misery on his face. He didn’t look well. He looked rather sick.

Mr. David dipped his head, asking quietly, “You okay?”

Dr. Whitly sadly shook his head.

Dr. Brewerton’s voice emanated from the speakers. “Dr. Whitly? Are you still there?”

With a forlorn sigh, Dr. Whitly reluctantly answered, “Yes. I’m still here.”

“Do you suggest we proceed with the Johnston Method or the arterial--?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Whitly responded.

There was a pause. “What was that?”

“I said, I don’t know.”

The smaller camera showed the surgical team lifting their heads and looking at each other nervously; in total disbelief. “What do you _mean_ you don’t know?” Dr. Brewerton gawked.

“I mean, _I don’t know.”_ Dr. Whitly repeated patiently, and with a surprising amount of respect. Maybe even remorse. “I _literally_ don’t know. I’ve never done a surgery in my life.”

The video call was silent.

“Are you kidding me?” Dr. Brewerton turned to one of his assistants. They were just as dumbstruck as he was. The entire surgical team was in shock. “You’re a world class cardiothoracic surgeon!”

“Martin, _cut the act.”_ Mr. David ordered, stepping over to him. “You are contracted to do these consultations. If you break that contract, there will be consequences.”

“What the hell is happening?” Dr. Brewerton started to sound angry. “Is this a joke?” 

“I’m sorry,” Martin said. “I can’t help you.”

Now, Mr. David was in shock. “What did you say?”

Martin turned to him, but he still spoke up for everyone to hear. “I said I’m sorry. I can’t help--”

Mr. David stormed over to the computer and ended the video call after giving his own apology to Dr. Brewerton on Claremont’s behalf. Then he led ‘The Not-A-Surgeon’ back to his cell. It took a lot to break Mr. David’s phlegmatic visage, but today, it had effectively cracked. He was upset, and it was obvious.

Dr. Whitly kept up with the perturbed guard’s pace as best he could while glancing back toward the conference room. “Is she going to be okay?”

Mr. David angrily snapped, “Who?”

“The patient,” Dr. Whitly clarified, asking again, “Is she going to be okay?”

Mr. David was so surprised to hear that question, he almost ceased his marching. His anger also instantly dispersed, and his voice grew more gentle. And confused. “Wh- yes. Yes, she’s going to be fine. Why do you…?”

Dr. Whitly waited for the guard to finish, but he didn’t.

_Care._

The guard was asking why he _cared,_ as if it wasn't _like him_ to care.

That saddened Dr. Whitly. He took a breath and ventured to ask, “Is she _really?”_

Or was Mr. David just saying that?

Did that _entire_ operation --did that woman’s _life--_ completely rely on Malcolm’s father’s expertise? Was she going to die now, because his father wasn't there to tell those doctors how best to save her?

Maybe Malcolm didn’t want to know the answer to those questions.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Mr. David murmured in a careful tone. He continued escorting the man down the hall. “It’s... it's out of our hands, now. Don’t worry about it,” he awkwardly advised.

But Malcolm did worry about it.

He worried about a lot of other things as well.


	10. Confiding

Jessica burst into laughter. “You are too funny, darling!"

Malcolm smiled contentedly, an expression that said this was not unknown to him.

Ainsley glanced between them, her expression still distorted with confusion. Malcolm was not known for his comedic wit. That is, unless it was born from a cynical sarcasm or the occasional inappropriate dark joke --none of which were in short supply tonight, but… tonight his jokes seemed different. More frequent, for one, but for two… they seemed deliberately aimed to make their mother laugh.

The blonde supposed there was nothing  _ wrong _ with her brother wanting to make their mother laugh, it just… wasn't a usual thing he did. It was like he was trying to be all  _ chummy _ with Jessica, and that was odd. Obviously, Malcolm just wanted to work on repairing his relationship with their mother, and Ainsley would have been a monster to feel spiteful of that, or get in the way of it. So she let them laugh, and smiled in response occasionally, but spent most of the dinner feeling like a third wheel.

Jessica rested her chin in her hand and babbled on. “Lisa’s company sells these  _ gorgeous _ watches. Have you seen them? There’s one timepiece with a rosewood face. Gold roman numerals. It’s divine! And they have one made with obsidian, as well. I was thinking about getting Gil one for his birthday.”

Malcolm’s smile dropped like an anvil. “What?”

“Gil,” she repeated, removing her hand from her chin to wave it at him, chuckling, “His birthday’s next week, you know that. You got him that little model car last year, remember? Or was that the year before?”

Malcolm didn’t answer her. He only blinked as if he’d just been struck across the face by her words.

Jessica’s smile faded when Malcolm’s did not return. “What’s the matter, dear?”

“Oh, I just,” he blinked again, and shook his head. Then his smile slowly returned. “Um… I think, ah…” He seemed to debate saying what he was going to say. Wincing slightly, he decided to tell her, “I think someone...  _ else _ is already getting him something.”

Jessica tilted her head, asking innocently, “Who?”

Malcolm continued, “Well, he’s been seeing this...  _ girl, _ lately.” He paused, letting that sink in. “I see her around his office...  _ quite _ often.”

Now Jessica was the one who looked like she’d been struck. Or stabbed. Or poisoned. Or all three at once. “A-- a  _ girl?” _

Malcolm nodded.

Ainsley listened.

Jessica tried to remember how to breathe. “Who is she? A friend?”

“I think she’s a  _ girlfriend,” _ Malcolm whispered, making a face like he was sorry to break the news to her.

But he wasn’t sorry. Not one bit.

“Oh. A girlfriend.” Jessica repeated, raising her brows as she tried to process what she’d been told. It took her quite a while to process it. “Well,” she laughed to conceal her heartbreak. “I didn’t know he was…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, and smiled painfully at the napkin in her lap, smoothing the creases in it.

“Yeah, some… old fling from college,” Malcolm shrugged, scraping up the last of the food from his empty plate.

Ainsley spoke up. “Is that true?”

Malcolm gave her a look as if he was offended by her question. “Of  _ course _ it’s true. Why would I lie about something like that?”

Ainsley gave him a little glare and argued in a very sister-like fashion, “I’m just  _ asking!” _

“Well, it was a silly question,” Malcolm declared mildly. He motioned at her plate. “Finish your dinner.”

“Who the hell  _ are  _ you, my dad?” Ainsley snapped.

Malcolm smirked at her.

Jessica brought her fingers to her temples and whined, “Children, please!” Sighing, she mumbled, “No fighting.”

Malcolm briefly raised his brows, convinced he’d won their minor squabble, but didn’t say anything else. Ainsley picked at her food, but didn’t bicker with her brother anymore. She gave her mother a sympathetic frown. “I’m sorry about Gil, mom. I know you really liked him.”

Malcolm cleared his throat and looked around for the house staff, ready for them to come take his empty plate.

Jessica waved away her daughter’s concern. “It’s alright, darling.” She shook her head and tried to stay optimistic. “I just hope he likes… whatever that woman gives him.”

Her mind wandered, and she took in a large breath before falsely smiling, and concluding their dinner. “Well, I am SO glad you kids could come over!” She reached out to squeeze both of their hands. “It was lovely seeing you again, sweethearts. Both of you.” Turning to her son, she beamed and joked, “Without work stealing you away, for once.”

Malcolm beamed back at her and purred, “The pleasure was all mine.”

The family said their goodbyes in the foyer.

Jessica gave them both one last hug and one last peck on the cheek before reminding them to text her about this and don’t forget about that. Her children waved to her as they descended the stairs to the sidewalk, and she smiled at them as she watched them go. But her smile fell before the door completely shut, and both of her children caught a stolen glimpse of her sorrow when she thought they weren’t looking.

Malcolm’s smile remained on his face. He proudly gazed up at the house again, with Ainsley hovering nearby.

“I’ll bet you twenty bucks she goes straight for the wine cart,” he muttered cheerfully --almost to himself. “I wonder which it’ll be. The chardonnay, or the merlot.”

He realized that Ainsley would not share in his humor, and glanced at her with a wince. “Sorry, that was... insensitive.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I’m sure she’ll be okay. There’s plenty of other men in the world.”

And he would be fine with Jessica dating any one of them, he told himself. Just…  _ not  _ Lieutenant Arroyo.

Ainsley was glowering at her brother. Her arms were folded across her chest and her eyes were as sharp as daggers.

It made him uncomfortable.

Equipping a shaky smile, he chirped, “Well, I’ll be going, now! It was lovely to see you again.” He turned his back on her to walk towards his car.

“Malcolm.”

He stopped. That was a tone that said he was in  _ trouble. _

Turning around again --much like he did when the Claremont guard at the gate had spoken his new name-- he nervously answered, “Yes?”

To his surprise, Ainsley’s glare was less harsh. “Did something... happen? Between you and dad?”

“Uh, no....” He smiled brightly to mask his guiltiness. “Why do you ask?”

“You said you’re ‘never ever going back to Claremont again.’” she quoted.

“Oh, right.” He relaxed a little, stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, and explained, “That’s because I’m not.”

She furrowed her brow and inquired, “Why?”

“Well, we…. “ He stopped to think about why, glancing off to the side. “To be honest, we did get in a bit of a fight. And by that, I mean a very heated argument.”

Ainsley shook her blonde curls. “You guys argue all the time.”

“Yes, but….” He sighed, admitting, “This one was different.”

Ainsley’s concern carved lines upon her pretty face. “How so?”

Malcolm made a face. “It had a lot more...  _ hatred  _ in it.”

“Oh.”

Malcolm added,  _ “I _ actually started it, believe it or not.”

_ “You _ started it?” Ainsley was surprised by that. From what she’d heard, their father always started their arguments, not their brother.

“I did,” he declared, placing all of the blame on his son. “I started it,  _ and _ I ended it. I am  _ never _ seeing him again.” Glancing to the street once more, he childishly muttered, “He can rot in hell for all I care.”

Ainsley blinked, shaking her head in confusion. “I thought you…”

She debated finishing what she was going to say. Her brother would probably feel offended by it, but she knew it was true, deep down.

“I thought you  _ like  _ seeing dad.”

He warily glanced back at the blonde. “I do?”

“It  _ seems  _ that way. It’s all you ever talk about. That, and your murders.”

“Oh.” Malcolm blinked. “Um….” He blinked again and shook his head, “Well you know, sometimes, things just…  _ change.” _ Thinking back to the strange power outage, he made another face and mumbled, “In very unexpected and sudden ways.”

Ainsley didn’t let him brush off their conversation. “Malcolm, I thought you loved him.”

His expression fell. “I did?” Shaking off his stunned trance, he corrected, “I mean, you-- you did?”

_ “Yeah,” _ She nodded like it was something obvious-- but something that he’d never admit to. “You two are like… well, oil and water, but in the same bottle.”

_ In the same bottle, indeed. _

The reporter was waiting for an answer, but Malcolm seemed to struggle to say anything.

_ “So? _ Do you?”

He hesitated. “Do I what?”

“Love him.”

_ Did  _ his son love him?

“Uhhh....” He blinked again, shook his head, then turned as if looking for a way out of this. “I don’t… I don’t  _ know.”  _ He sharply sighed, growing agitated by the things she was making him think. And feel. “You know, it doesn’t really  _ matter _ to me all that much,” he announced with a small glare aimed at the woman.

“No, clearly it does,” she argued gently.

She took a step closer. 

Martin stood rigid as she continued her compassionate interrogation.

“I can tell when you’re upset, Malcolm. I’m not an idiot. You’ve been faking smiles all night, and you’re hiding this great big...  _ bitterness  _ inside. It’s like... you’re not even yourself anymore.”

She looked him up and down, her eyes soft but scrutinizing.

“He said something that hurt you, didn’t he?” she identified.

_ “No,” _ he instantly scoffed. His grin was so wide, it almost looked painful. “Of course not.”

She saw straight through the defensive lie. “What did he say to you?” she asked gently.

Martin eyed her as if she had him backed up against a wall. His fists clenched in his pockets and his heart pounded in his chest. He glanced to the side again, but he was unable to avoid the position of honesty and vulnerability his daughter had put him in.

“He said….” He took a breath and corrected, “Uh, _ I  _ said, actually…. That….” His eyes glazed over as he was forced to reflect on the incredibly hurtful thing the profiler had screamed at him during their argument. 

“If… If I had to be born as his son… then I would have preferred to never be born at all.”

Ainsley stared at him; her expression empathetic, but also somehow cold. “Did you mean that?”

“....I think I did.” Martin swallowed and nodded, hearing his son’s voice scream it over and over in his memory. “I think I really did.”

He took in a large breath and looked down at his shoes. “But it was a stupid thing to say, because it’s….” He pressed his lips together and cleared a knot out of his throat before continuing, “It’s not fair.”

Ainsley watched him struggle through his emotions, listening intently.

“You know, um. Because... dad really was… good to us. And he never… did any harm to us, or….”

Well, that wasn't entirely true, Martin knew.

Deep down inside.

Even if he would never admit it.

Keeping his head down in an attempt to hide the wretched misery on his face, he finished, “I think he tried…  _ very  _ hard to be a good father, despite, uh… despite whatever flaws he may have.” Reluctantly, he corrected, “ _ Has.” _

His skin felt hot and all of his muscles felt tight. His hands trembled in their pockets, and no amount of flexing his fingers cured their tremors. If he were a smoker or an alcoholic, he would have yearned desperately for a cigarette or a drink.

“I think so, too.”

He looked up at Ainsley  _ \--really  _ looked at her, for once. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, her eyes glistening with tears. Just like his were.

She never thought she’d hear her brother say those things about their father. Things that they couldn’t say in front of their mother. Things that they couldn’t say,  _ ever…  _ in front of  _ anyone. _ Anyone but each other.

She finally no longer felt so alone in thinking those things. In  _ feeling  _ those things.

Martin no longer felt so alone in thinking and feeling those things, too.

Ainsley took a shaky breath, struggled to come up with what to say, and then stepped forward while opening her arms to give her brother a hug. She pulled him tight against her chest, her hands clasped behind his back.

Martin hesitated before curling his arms around his daughter to accept her embrace.

They stood there for a while, wrapped up in each other’s healing presence.

She spoke into his shoulder. “Try to forgive yourself, Malcolm. For what you said to dad.”

Martin thought about her words. Could he forgive his son for what he’d said to him?

“I don’t think I can,” he feared.

“Just try,” she encouraged, placing her hands on his shoulders and pulling back to end their hug. She gave her dearest brother a small smile as she nodded, “Okay?”

He studied her face before murmuring a hollow, “Okay.”

Ainsley’s smile strengthened. She squeezed his shoulders before stepping away and then saying, “Goodnight. Love you.”

She turned her back on him, wiping the moisture away from her lower eyelids and marching away in her designer heels with a renewed confidence to her step.

He watched her go.

“I love you too, Ains.”


	11. Reflection

A humble flood of moonlight washed in through the cell windows. It was beautiful, but it was also cold and lonesome. ‘Dr. Whitly’ lay in his cot, waiting for sleep, or death, or or the morning-- whichever would come first.

Malcolm was not only not _accustomed_ to sleep, but he also _feared_ it, especially tonight. He feared the nightmares sleep would bring if he succumbed to it. Would they be the same terrors that he usually endured? Would they be different, _worse,_ now that he was trapped inside his father’s body? Surely their entire brains hadn’t swapped during the switch --but perhaps they had, evident by the fact that he had none of his father’s memories or surgical expertise.

He wondered if --when his father slept tonight-- he would have Malcolm's night terrors, leaving Malcolm to sleep in peace, for once? But that was assuming his father usually slept in peace. It was entirely possible that he didn’t. It was entirely possible that his father’s dreams were far, far worse than Malcolm's. But maybe, to Martin, they were _good_ dreams.

Malcolm did not want to find out the answers to these questions. He did not fall asleep.

He spent the night staying awake, thinking about everything imaginable, from the patient he’d failed to save today to his father running rampant in New York City. He thought about his family, and his team at the precinct. He thought about his past, and his future, and about all the things he should have done in his life --not to mention all the things he probably _shouldn’t_ have done in his life. He thought extensively about the color orange, and he thought about the possibility of life existing on other planets.

In his seemingly eternal solitude, he thought about everything. Everything, _except_ that fight he’d had with his father.

Yet those thoughts came, all the same. They brought a sickening feeling of remorse with them. They reminded him of the hatred that had fueled his words, but also of the justifications behind that hatred. It wasn't a good feeling to have hatred in one’s heart, but it was one of the most difficult afflictions of the heart to cure. Malcolm’s heart felt swollen and throbbing with a red hot ache, like the patient’s heart on that webcam in the consultation room.

Sighing, he hauled himself out of bed and paced the room to distract himself from his own mind. Eventually, he wandered over to the bookshelves, perusing them curiously as he analyzed his father’s taste in literature.

His eyes passed over a familiar book; a book that was old and cracked at the edges of the spine from so much use. He pulled it out of the shelf and gazed at the cover. His thumb flipped through the pages of the paperback --like it had so many times before. The book made his heart ache with a new emotion. An emotion of fondness, and of pain, and of longing. The emotion of a bittersweet nostalgia.

The book was _The Count of Monte Cristo._

He lifted the book to his nose, breathing in the scent of its sawdust pages. The essence of the adventures, locations, and characters from the story wafted up from that scent, carrying their souls to life.

A smile tugged across his face.

He spent the rest of the night in the comfort and company of that book.

Like he had so many nights before.

* * *

A humble flood of moonlight also washed in through the loft’s tall, fogged, observatory-like windows. It illuminated the hot steam rolling out of the open door to the bathroom, making it appear deceivingly cold. ‘Malcolm’ stepped out of the shower and dried himself off with a white towel --one that was plush enough to have originated from a luxurious hotel.

After fastening the towel around his waist and running his fingers through his dripping hair, he briefly smiled at the face of his son in the mirror, then examined his toned arms and chest with great pride and approval. Martin honestly had _no_ idea why Malcolm didn’t have a girlfriend. Or three. He was an incredibly smart, successful, and handsome young man; everything he was destined to be.

Well, _almost_ everything.

Martin smirked with Malcolm’s lips, but before he left the mirror, he stopped, noticing something.

His son had a scar.

Martin stepped closer towards his son’s reflection while touching the large blemish on his abdomen.

That was no accidental scratch. That was a trauma wound. A bad one. Dr. Whitly had seen enough of them --had _inflicted_ enough of them-- to recognize the scar of a trauma wound when he saw one.

He stared at the scar, trying to reverse engineer it in his head to discern what had caused it. A puncture wound, but not that of a bullet. There was no exit scar on his back. A blade had done that to him. It may have even been twisted when it was inside of him. He could tell that a sub-par suturing job had closed it up, and he could tell that it had been closed-up after the wound had tried to futility repair itself, meaning his son hadn’t received medical attention in a timely manner.

He also could tell how old the scar was; a few months, meaning the wound dated back to….

His eyes darted up to his son’s, and he saw an expression of shock, maybe even horror on his son’s face.

Christmas. When Malcolm had gone missing. When John had taken him.

Martin had no idea his son had been stabbed. He had no idea his son had suffered that wound --suffered that pain. Martin could imagine that pain. He could imagine it very very accurately, and being in Malcolm's body while he imagined his boy feeling that pain made it all the more terrible and vivid.

After the ordeal, Malcolm had said he was fine, but clearly, that had been a lie. How many times had Malcolm said he was ‘fine,’ but had really been lying?

Taking a breath to reset himself, Martin straightened his posture and tried to make his son look _fine._ He even smiled at himself, wishing to see Malcolm smile, but he saw through the lie.

The truth was; Malcolm was not fine.

Martin looked at his son more closely in that reflection. He saw the bags under his eyes. He saw the malnourishment beneath his muscles. He saw the emotion tugging at his stoic and strong expression, and for the first time, Martin recognized it all. Malcolm had looked like this nearly every time he’d come to visit him in his cell.

Malcolm had looked like this this morning, when they’d had their fight.

_‘You hurt me! Do you understand that? You hurt me!’_

Malcolm’s reflection screamed at him as he paced the other end of his cell, gesturing angrily.

_‘I am so screwed up because of you!’_

Martin’s heart thundered in his chest, and a spike of fear seized him as he remembered.

_'If I had to be born as your son, then I would have preferred to never be born at all!'_

Martin ran from the moon-misted bathroom and closed the door with a slam. He went straight to Malcolm’s bed, brushing the chains of the restraints aside and crashing upon the pillow. Rubbing his face with the heels of his palms, he erased what he’d seen --what he’d heard, what he’d remembered, what he’d felt.

He didn't look in that mirror, or any other mirror, again.


	12. Convincing

Mr. David passed his badge over the keypad and entered the cell. He carried in a tray of vegan breakfast that was the perfect combination of everything terrible about hospital food and everything terrible about prison food. Luckily, he wasn't the one who had to eat it.

“Morning,” he muttered. The guard was his usual non-cheery self again, no longer quite as upset about the fiasco that happened yesterday. He stood in the center of the room with the tray and asked, “Still think you’re your son?”

Dr. Whitly didn’t answer him. He sat on his cot, his back against the wall and a book in his hands. Although he did look very tired, he didn’t look too dejected and depressed. At least, not as much as he did for the majority of yesterday afternoon. He closed the novel and rested it on his lap, keeping his touch over it.

“I understand why you don’t believe me, Mister David,” he murmured in a gentle, low tone. He looked up at the man with a distant memory in his eyes. A memory he’d been thoroughly thinking about over the past few hours. “Because after all, you  _ did  _ tell me, the very first time I visited my father, not to believe everything he says.”

Mr. David stared at his patient.

‘Dr. Whitly’ pointed at the cell door. “You told it to me right outside that hallway. I was ten years old. I was so nervous to come into this room, I was trembling all over.”

Mr. David didn’t blink.

“You knelt down to get to my level. You put your hands on my shoulders. You looked me straight in the eye, and you said--”

_ ‘Don’t believe everything your father says,’  _ a much younger (but still bald) Mr. David told the child standing in front of him. His hands were big and warm. His eyes were kind, but focused. He shook his head as he continued telling the child,  _ ‘No matter how much you love him.’ _

The gentle weight of his hands increased with an encouraging pressure.  _ ‘You do that, and you’ll be just fine, Malcolm.’ _

They both remembered it as if it were yesterday.

“When that visit was over, you did the same thing again,” the man sitting on the cot reminisced. “You knelt in front of me outside that hallway and you asked me how I was feeling. I said I didn’t know. You said that was alright.”

“I told you I was glad my father wasn't hurting people anymore, but I was sad that we wouldn’t get to finish the book we were reading together.”

Malcolm held up the novel in his hands. It was his father’s first possession that he was allowed to have in his cell.  _ The Count of Monte Cristo. _

“I told you I wanted him to know how it ended. You told me you’d see that he got a chance to finish it.”

A great silence filled the room.

Finally, Mr. David whispered, “Oh my God.” 

The tray in his hands plummeted to the ground, sending vegan food all over the floor.


	13. Pavor Nocturnus

Martin didn’t know if his scream was born from his night terror, or from the injury he suffered because of it. Regardless, he was soon in front of the bathroom mirror again (much to his chagrin) to examine a contusion that had newly blossomed over his hairline.

His son’s hairline.

Holding a pack of frozen peas on his bruised head, he left the bathroom and went back into the bedroom, which was littered with all of the things that had been knocked over from the nightstand.

The night terror had been unlike any other nightmare he’d ever experienced. It had been from his son’s perspective, and he had been powerless to resist his son’s fear, his son’s anguish, his son’s horrors.

It was a stupid night terror, he thought, thinking back on it now. Gore, death, and women locked in boxes were not scary things to Dr. Whitly. They were his bread and butter.

Yet, he’d felt terror all the same.

He tried not to think about it. It was over, now, and he was fine. His son was fine, save for this bruise over his head. He needed to cover it up so that people wouldn’t ask him about it, and remind him of its source.

Still holding the pack of peas over his head, he grabbed his phone and texted a friend.

_ ‘I need to borrow some makeup.’ _

* * *

Ainsley thought that had been quite a strange text to get from Malcolm, but it certainly wasn't the strangest text she’d ever seen from her brother. She came over with her kit and started concealing the discoloration of his damaged skin. “What the hell did you do to yourself?” she asked.

“I didn’t do anything. I just woke up, and it was already like this,” Malcolm lied.

“Well, your head didn’t bruise itself,” Ainsley retorted.

Malcolm glared stubbornly at the far wall as he endured each dab of her powder puff.

“Did you forget to put on your restraints again?”

_ Restraints? Again? _ He glanced over at the cuffs attached to the headboard.  _ Is that what they were for? _

Martin hadn’t known that. He formed another excuse, “I didn't think I’d have any nightmares last night.”

“You always have nightmares,” Ainsley hummed sadly. “There. That’s the best I can do.” She moved away from him and handed him a little pink compact mirror so he could look at her work. 

He did, but only briefly, flashing it up at himself as if he was scared to look at the reflection for too long. “That will suffice,” he sighed, giving it back to her and then standing to go pick out a button-up shirt from Malcolm’s wardrobe.

“You’re welcome,” Ainsley muttered sarcastically, packing away her makeup kit. “I gotta run to work. Let me know if any serial killers are on the loose, okay? I need exclusivity.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and demanded that he answer her with a tilt of her head and a forceful,  _ “Promise?” _

Finishing up the last button of a shirt, he turned to flash her a small smile. “Sure thing, Ains.”

She marched away in her heels, calling back, “Don’t get into too much trouble today!”

“I can’t promise you that,” he called with a smirk, fastening a red necktie neatly around his collar.

Ainsley hadn't expected anything more. She closed the door behind her.

As Malcolm began cooking a healthy breakfast for himself, his cell phone buzzed with a call. There was a name on the caller I.D., but he didn’t recognize it.

He answered anyway, offering a neutral but curious, “Hello?”

The caller had a woman’s voice. It was a voice that sounded more or less fed-up with people’s bullshit, but it was a voice that was still nice enough about it. It was a voice that was all about business, and it was a voice that got straight to the point.

“We’ve got another homicidal maniac running around. It’s right up your alley. Can you come over and take a look at the scene?”

Malcolm smiled, excitedly asking the woman, “Is there a body?”

“Yep. Looks like someone tried to saw her into pieces.”

“Oooh, terrific,” Malcolm grinned. He began putting the breakfast supplies away. Chicken back in the fridge. Bread back in the cupboard. Knife… reluctantly back in the knife block.

The woman asked, “Was that sarcasm?”

“Definitely,” Malcolm fibbed.

“I’ll text you the address.”

She ended the call, and Malcolm eagerly waited for her to send him the address.


	14. Carpe Diem

Mr. David was silent for a long time. Dr. Whitly waited patiently as the man came to terms with the truth --that he had been _telling_ the truth ever since that power outage. He had switched places with his father.

As Mr. David cleaned up the food he’d spilled, he argued with himself under his breath, muttering, “this can’t be possible,” and “this doesn’t make sense,” over and over, among similar phrases.

The profiler was very impressed with how little the guard swore. He remained sitting on the cot, nodding along and agreeing, “I know. I don’t understand how it happened either, but it happened.”

As Mr. David finished picking up the last of the peas that had rolled across the carpet, he stood up and exclaimed, “What are we gonna do? I can’t just let you out!”

His charge made a face, and the guard realized, “Oh shit…"

He’d already let his patient out. There was a predator on the loose in New York City.

“Oh shit, Malcolm, your dad. He’s out.”

 _“I know,”_ Malcolm emphasized. “That’s why I’ve been panicking this whole time!”

“What the hell are we gonna do?!” Mr. David cried, stomping his foot and turning in a circle with distress.

“We’ve gotta get him back,” Malcolm answered, massaging his hands. _The Count of Monte Cristo_ still rested in his lap. “Somehow.”

Mr. David continued pacing the room. If the man had any hair, he’d have pulled it all out and grown bald again. “This bad, kid. This is really bad.”

“Yeah. It _is_ really bad,” Malcolm commiserated dejectedly. 

His father was going to kill someone, and he was going to use Malcolm’s hands to do it.

“But I know someone we can call,” the profiler eased, clinging to a thread of hope.

His mood grew somber again. “I pray he will listen.”


	15. Group Work

Dr. Whitly was a little nervous to arrive at the crime scene, only because there were so many police officers swarming around. But none of them paid him any mind at all, and he didn’t even have to show his badge to anyone --although he did have it out, ready to verify his new identity just in case.

“Bright, over here!”

He turned toward the sound of the voice, recognizing it from the phone call, and beamed. “Dani!” 

The lady cop wandered over to him, her arms crossed over her grey shirt and tan leather jacket. She was wearing tight fitting pants that nicely showed off her legs, and her curly black hair was pulled behind her head, exposing her pretty bronze face. A badge and a pistol were clipped to her belt. She started rattling off facts about the case, but he wasn't really listening. He was too busy smiling at the detective. He’d never seen her before, and that was a real shame. She was marvelous.

‘Malcolm’ interrupted her with a pleasant tone. “You look lovely today.” 

She scrunched her face, thinking that was an odd thing for him to say. “Um. Thanks?”

Then a much less lovely person walked up to them, effectively ruining what Martin thought would have been the start of a wonderful conversation with the lady cop.

“Hey, kid,” Gil greeted.

‘Malcolm’ tried not to cringe, but his voice was tight. “Hello again, _Lieutenant.”_

He was so busy loathing the sight of Lieutenant Arroyo, he almost didn’t hear him ask, “How are ya doing?”

 _“Great,”_ Malcolm answered, his voice still soaked with hatred.

Gil squinted at him. “Is that… makeup on your forehead?”

_“Nope.”_

Gil reached forward, “Did you hurt your--?”

Malcolm flinched back, snapping, “Do _not_ touch me.”

Now the lady cop was squinting at him, too. “Malcolm, is everything okay?”

A third cop joined their group, also with a confused look on his face.

Malcolm sighed and tried to maintain an affable outward appearance. “Everything is fine,” he smiled, smoothing his tie and tugging down his suit jacket.

They did not seem convinced.

“Are you sure?” the lady cop asked.

The male cop muttered, “Yeah, something’s wrong with your head, man.”

Malcolm argued, “There is _nothing_ wrong with my head. Now can we talk about the case again? Dani, you were saying that the victim… was found where?”

“In the bathtub.”

“How original,” Malcolm grumbled. “Cause of death?”

“Edrisa hasn’t made an official call, but--”

“My money’s on the sledgehammer to the skull,” the male detective interjected. “After that, it looks like the psycho tried to saw her into pieces.”

“Probably to dispose of,” Malcolm supposed, then smirked, “Let me guess, he didn’t finish the job because whatever tool he was using just wasn't _cutting it.”_

Literally.

The officers did not think that was funny. Dani and the unknown male exchanged looks.

Lieutenant Arroyo was busy looking at his phone. “That’s strange. I’m getting a call from Claremont.”

Malcolm’s eyes darted to the cell phone in the lieutenant’s hands. “Ignore it,” he ordered, then explained, “My father’s been trying to reach me, and I’ve been avoiding him, so now he’s trying to get to me through you.”

Gil hesitated before declining the call. Pocketing his phone, he gave the boy a concerned look. “Why’s your dad trying to reach you?”

Malcolm met his gaze with a glare and answered, “That doesn’t concern you.”

He was about to turn away from the lieutenant, but he decided against it. Holding up a finger, he set the record straight. “And by the way, there’s nothing wrong with him wanting to reach me. I am _his son,_ after all. I simply don’t want to talk to him right now because I am at work, and I am fully invested in work.”

He headed off to locate the murder victim, oblivious to the fact that nobody followed him. “Let’s take a look at the damage, shall we?” 

JT eyed Lieutenant Arroyo. “Are you and Malcolm in a fight?”

“Not that I knew of,” Gil muttered, stunned by how the young man had treated him.

Dani stayed silent, watching Bright march through the crime scene like he owned it. That wasn't any different than usual, but there were plenty of things about him today that _were very_ different than usual.

As he walked away from the group of cops, Malcolm’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced down at it. The caller I.D. belonged to ‘Claremont.’ The young man smiled, then took great pleasure in swiping the red button to decline the call.

“Oooh, that felt good,” he whispered, silencing the device and then burying it deep into his pocket as if it was a corpse.

_Karma was a real bitch, wasn't it, son?_

“Edrisa?” he called, keeping his eyes peeled for whoever would answer him.

A woman with short black hair and glasses glanced behind her shoulder. She was kneeling in front of a splatter-stained bathtub, and she looked very happy to see him. “Malcolm! Hi!” She waved at him with a bloody glove.

Malcolm returned her greeting with equal delight, beaming at her. “Hello!” Stepping over to kneel beside her, he asked, “What are we looking at here?”

It was exactly what had been described to him. A woman’s skull had been bashed in, and there were deep cuts all long her limbs and across her abdomen. Some parts of her were barely attached. The entire bathroom stank with the putrid scent of her opened organs. Blood pooled in the tub around her naked body.

It was a sloppy work of art.

“May I?” he smiled, asking to examine the body.

“Sure!” she allowed. “Oh, wait!” The woman held out a box of gloves to him. “You’re gonna want these!”

“I’m not afraid to get my hand a _little_ dirty,” he joked, taking a pair and putting them on. “But it’s best to stay as clean as possible, isn’t it?”

With an excited grin, he reached in, examining the depth of each laceration on the victim’s corpse.

* * *

Dani leaned against the wall in the other room to watch Malcolm and Edrisa.

JT joined her. 

“Is Bright acting a little... weird today?” she asked her fellow detective.

“It’s Bright. He’s always acting weird,” JT justified.

“Yeah, but today he’s acting weirder than usual.”

JT shrugged. “Maybe he just had a bad morning. Probably bumped his head a little too hard on something.”

“No, it’s more than that,” Dani worried. “It’s like he’s a whole different person or something.”

JT scoffed. “What, because he gave you dreamy eyes and said you looked nice?”

Dani gave him a look. He was dangerously close to getting punched. He shut his mouth.

“He didn’t say I looked ‘nice,’” she corrected him. “He said I looked _‘lovely.’_ ”

Bright hardly ever said ‘lovely.’ Or ‘terrific.’

“Okay, you’re right,” JT shrugged. “Bright admitting that he’s into you is… definitely something he’s never done before. But shouldn’t you be happy about that? Everyone in the precinct knows you've been interested in him for months.”

Dani didn’t answer him at first. She shifted her weight and glanced downward for a moment, mumbling, “I don’t know.” Then she muttered, “Just shut up and let me think.”

JT shut up and let her think.

Maybe Malcolm _was_ just having a bad morning, Dani thought, looking beyond a web of yellow caution tape to watch him. He was smiling now that he was with Edrisa. Grinning. Even laughing. Edrisa was doing all of those same things, too.

Malcolm held up the victim’s arm and pointed to a layer in an exposed wound as he explained something to Dr. Tanaka. Dr. Tanaka nodded and explained something back, pointing at the cold dead skin of the body. Malcolm complimented the forensic analyst, and Dr. Tanaka blushed while trying to cover her face. The profiler had never given Edrisa this much attention before, and everyone knew Edrisa starved for it. Now, the analyst was almost overwhelmed by it.

Malcolm made Edrisa laugh again, and his smile twinkled as if reflecting her radiance. The two of them geeked out about the processes of decomposition and the wonders of the human body when it endured death --even going as far as finishing each other’s sentences. Edrisa looked like she was on cloud nine, and Malcolm did too. 

JT spoke up again, a disgusted look on his face. “Are you seeing what I’m seein’?”

“Yup,” Dani sighed. As Malcolm and Edrisa continued acting like the _best_ of friends, the detective felt herself become sick. She moved away from the wall to go outside and get some air, unable to watch them any longer.

JT sadly watched Dani leave, then folded his arms and shook his head as he turned back to watch the two lovebirds kneeling in front of the bloody bathtub. That was certainly not the match-up he was expecting, and it was hardly a romantic setting.

* * *

As a reporter, Ainsley Whitly received plenty of calls from unknown numbers. She was smart enough not to answer any of them. But this unknown number called her _seven_ times, and even left a voicemail.

Her father’s voice was the last thing she expected to hear on that voicemail.

_‘Hey Ains. Um… It’s… dad. I need to talk to you about Malcolm. It’s urgent. Call me back as soon as you can, okay? Please?’_

Ainsley listened to the voicemail once more, then deliberated over calling Claremont back. She was about to leave to report on a breaking news story, but... well, how could she resist?

With a toss of her hair, she lifted her phone to her head. Claremont answered on the first ring. “Hello, Dr. Whitly.”

“Ainsley! Are you alright?”

She made a face. “...Yeah?”

“Good,” her father sighed. “Good, okay, do you know where Malcolm is?”

Ainsley rolled her eyes. Of course, the conversation went straight to the topic of her brother. “Look, if you wanted to talk to _Malcolm,_ then call Malcolm.”

“I tried. He’s not answering.”

“Well, big surprise there,” she retorted sarcastically. “I mean, what’d you expect? You guys had a huge fight yesterday.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Malcolm told me.”

“He did? When?”

“Last night,” Ainsley answered plainly.

Her father sounded horror-struck. “The dinner. Oh my God, the dinner.”

The reporter furrowed her brow. “How do you know about the dinner?”

“Is mom-- I mean, is your mom okay?”

“Yes? Why the hell are you-- what’s going on, dad? You’re acting all… worried.”

“I _am_ worried. I am _very_ worried because Malcolm…. Malcolm’s got something going on, Ains, something bad, and he needs to be… watched. By the authorities.”

Ainsley groaned. “Oh my God, dad, Seriously? What drugs are you taking?”

“Ainsley, listen to me. Malcolm is a hazard.”

The blonde scoffed, “Are you saying he’s like, gonna kill himself or something?”

“No, I’m saying he’s gonna kill someone _else.”_

Now, Ainsley had to laugh. _“Malcolm_ is going to kill somebody? Wow. You are _so_ delusional, dad. Malcolm would _never.”_

“Ainsley, please!”

Standing up from her cubicle desk, Ainsley put her makeup kit away and prepared to go out for her next live shot. With a stern tone, she ended their conversation. “Look, I know he’s your _favorite,_ but he’s not like _you._ No matter how much you want him to be. I’m done. Goodbye.”

She hung up the call and followed her photographer out the door. Apparently, there _was_ another murderer on the loose, and her brother hadn’t given her any sort of heads-up about it whatsoever.

* * *

Malcolm took off his gloves and thanked Dr. Tanaka for letting him take a closer look at the body. She stood up to go run a sample, babbling, “Oh, of course! Anytime! You know me, I’m all like ‘ _aaah’_ every time I get a chance to come out and look at a body!” 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have plenty more chances,” Malcolm murmured warmly.

Edrisa floated out of the room, her internal screams of delight almost audible. Passing by JT, she quietly squealed, _“He likes me!”_

“Congrats,” JT muttered, tossing another disappointed look at the back of the profiler’s head before following Edrisa outside.

Alone at the scene of the crime, Malcolm spread his hands along the edge of the porcelain bathtub and gazed at the crimson stew in front of him.

“What a shame,” he whispered, a soft smile on his lips. “I would have taken such better care of you.”

His smile disappeared, giving way to a hollow, soulless expression of awe and lust. He looked at the body as if it was something that had been destroyed instead of utilized to its full potential. That victim could have been a masterpiece, but instead she became a mangled waste of a perfectly good canvas.

His fingers trailed down the side of the porcelain, reaching out to touch the pool of blood that the woman was bathing in. He moved slowly, with as much reverence as if he was about to touch a vat of holy water.

But his fingertips did not meet the red paint. He froze as he heard Lieutenant Arroyo’s voice.

_“Martin?”_

Martin tensed, then whirled around.

Gil was in the other room, his cell phone pressed to his ear as he angrily spoke into it. “Hold on, Martin. First of all, how the _hell_ did you get my cell number?”

The _real_ Martin’s relief was overpowered by another wave of panic. He jumped up and ran out the bathroom, gesturing and yelling for the lieutenant to, “Hang up! Hang up!”

Gil held up a finger at him and continued talking to the cell phone. “I’m not talking to you about Malcolm. That’s none of your business. No, I happen to know for a _fact_ that he’s alright, and that’s all you need to know.”

The false profiler hissed at him, “You need to hang up! _Now_ _!"_

Gil snickered at the phone in his hand. “Oh, really? You think I’m gonna believe that? If that kid was in trouble, I would know about it _long_ before you.”

‘Malcolm’ lunged forward to wrestle the cellphone away from him. Gil let him have it, stunned by the profiler’s desperation to obtain the device. The false profiler turned away from the lieutenant and brought the phone against his own head, growling, “Ohh, you got a _lot_ of nerve, calling _him.”_

A voice which used to be his own roared on the other end of the line. “YOU! I knew you were with him! You get the hell away from him, do you hear me?”

“No, _you_ listen to _me,”_ Martin demanded in his new voice, marching off to have some privacy. This was a conversation between him and his son --nobody else. _“You_ did this,” he snarled, stepping outside. He trudged down the street, past all the police vehicles and staff, who still didn’t give him a second glance. “This is _your_ fault, and there is _nothing_ you can do to fix it!"

“What are you talking about!?” his old voice exclaimed. “How is this my fault!?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about!” Martin snapped. “Now, you’re going to spend a very _long_ time in that room, son, and you’re going to see what it’s like in _my_ shoes, and you’re going to _think_ about what you _said_ to me, and you’re going to--”

“Martin. Enough.”

Martin halted. That was Mr. David’s voice. He was not happy.

“Playtime is over.”

Martin took a breath and tamed his flared temper. Then, he snickered, “Ohhh, he’s got _you_ on his side, now, does he?” He cruelly warned, “You better be careful what foolish things you believe, Mister David. You’ve been hanging around all those crazy people for so long… you’re starting to sound a little mad yourself. You wouldn’t want to get _locked-up_ like one of them, would you?”

“Don’t threaten me, Martin. I’m the closest thing to a friend you’ve got in this world, and you don’t want to lose that, or you’ll have one _hell_ of a time livin’ the rest of your life in this cell.”

Martin grinned. Mr. David was wrong. He wasn't the closest thing to a friend he had in this world. Not anymore. Now, he had _actual_ friends. He had _coworkers._ He had his _family._ He had everything Malcolm _used_ to have, and he would _not_ be living the rest of his life in that cell. Instead, _Malcolm_ would.

“I’d worry about your patient, if I were you,” Martin advised darkly. “Take good care of him for me, will you?” He gave one final snarl into the speaker of the phone. “And make sure he sleeps with the handcuffs _on.”_

He jabbed the red button so hard, he almost cracked the screen of the phone.

Though their conversation was over, he still felt a fiery hatred coursing through his veins. It felt _good._ It made him feel _powerful,_ and he liked it. It had been so long since he’d secured the last word on anything. It felt like he’d delivered a final punch to an opponent -- one that resulted in a K.O. and earned him a boxing title. He’d missed that feeling of triumph.

But as that hatred ebbed away, as that pleasure wore off… he began to feel something else. He began to feel a little… _icky_ about it.

Had he been too harsh towards his son? Had Malcolm deserved all those things he’d said to him?

Yes.

Yes, he did. Because _Malcolm_ had said hurtful things, too. A little discipline never hurt anybody, and Martin _was_ his father. He was doing that boy a favor, he decided. Teaching him a lesson.

Martin wasn't going to talk to his son again until Malcolm was ready to apologize to him, and take back what he’d said the other day.

“Malcolm!”

“Oh, God.” Martin rolled his eyes, turning around to glare at Lieutenant Arroyo as the man caught up to him.

“What was that all about?” Gil asked.

‘Malcolm’ cleared his throat, brushed his stringy hair back into place, and then reluctantly handed the phone back to the officer. “Nothing.”

Gil looked down at the phone, befuddled. “He said you’re in danger. That someone bad is lookin’ for you, and that you need to be watched twenty-four seven.”

Malcolm chuckled, and shook his head. “That’s not true. He’s just saying that.”

None of this felt right to the lieutenant. He put his hands on his hips and demanded, “What the hell is going on, kid?”

 _“Nothing,”_ Malcolm repeated firmly, glaring at him with eyes as sharp as needles. “Everything is _fine.”_

“No, I _know_ you, and I can _tell_ that everything is _not_ fine,” Gil argued. His voice remained compassionate as he offered, “Malcolm, you know I’ve always got your back. If you need anything--”

Malcolm let out a curt, sarcastic laugh. “Oh, you’ve done _quite enough,_ Lieutenant.”

Gil furrowed his brow.

Stepping up to the officer, Martin unleashed a fury that was as scalding as lava --and just as thick, heavy, and slow. “You’ve made my life a living _hell._ Do you know that? The moment you came to my door was the moment you ruined _everything._ You _broke_ apart my family and you _destroyed_ my future.”

Gil was nearly speechless. “Malcolm--!”

With a cruel smile, Martin finished, “Don’t. You. _Ever._ Talk to me, or my family, again.” He nodded and lifted his brows before whispering a warning, “Or you’ll regret it.”

He would be all too happy to end the man’s life, the first chance he got.

Now, Gil was entirely speechless.

‘Malcolm’ sighed, feeling a great weight fall off his shoulders. “You have _no idea_ how long I’ve wanted to say that to your face.” He gestured to the officer’s phone, cheerfully telling him to, “Block that number for me, will you? And block mine, too, while you're at it.”

The profiler pulled out his NYPD Consultant badge and shoved it into the Lieutenant's chest. “I quit!” he announced with a broad grin, opening his arms and walking away like the free man he was.

It was time for a drastic change of his son’s career.

* * *

The old beige phone made a disheartened _chink_ sound as it was placed back on the receiver.

They both stood by the device, Mr. David on one side and ‘Dr. Whitly’ on the other. A silence padded the space between them for a moment, until Mr. David asked, “Do you wanna try calling your sister again?”

“No,” Malcolm answered quietly.

He knew his sister wouldn’t pick up again. Nobody would. Not even Gil had listened to him. They’d come up with the perfect story, that Malcolm was in danger and needed to be watched. But Gil hadn’t believed him. That hurt Malcolm more than he cared to admit. That hurt him even more than everything his father had said to him.

After another few moments of silence, Mr. David hesitated, then placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Malcolm.”

Malcolm sincerely hoped so.

“If I have to go over there and put him in handcuffs myself, I will,” Mr. David vowed.

“I don’t want you getting hurt,” Malcolm murmured despondently. He didn’t want anyone getting hurt.

Mr. David elbowed him lightly. “You’re a scrawny kid, I can take you.”

Malcolm smiled briefly, then opened his mouth to defend his scrawny self --but Mr. David’s pager buzzed. It was a very angry sound.

Mr. David pulled it out and looked at it. “Oh. You’re late. That’s my fault.” He quickly messaged his supervisor back, saying that everything was fine and he’d simply lost track of time.

“Late?” Malcolm asked. “For what?”

“Group therapy.” Mr. David pocketed his pager and then rolled the phone cart off to the side. “Come on. We gotta go, or we’ll both get in trouble.” He swiped his bade over the keypad to the door and the crimson portal opened.

“Handcuffs,” Malcolm reminded him.

“Oh, right.” The guard pulled them off his belt and fastened them around Dr. Whitly’s wrists.

Around _Malcolm’s_ wrists.

It sickened Mr. David to do that.

* * *

Martin had just reached his car when he was stopped by a voice. It was the lady cop’s voice.

“Hey, Malcolm, wait.”

Opening the driver’s side door and resting one arm atop it, he turned and sighed, “What now?”

Dani came over to stand by him, her arms still folded across her chest. “You know… you were kind of an asshole to Gil earlier.”

Malcolm scoffed. If she thought _that_ had been bad, she should have heard everything he just said to the lieutenant.

"He cares about you, you know,” Dani murmured, passing her concerned gaze over his figure.

Malcolm appeared very peeved to hear that. He prepared to give her an earful about how Gil should not care about him, but Dani added something else.

“And… I do too.”

Malcolm’s glare softened into a look of confusion. He warily glanced her up and down and then seemed to become much more curious than upset.

“As a friend,” she amended, embarrassed by her own confession.

Malcolm slowly nodded, then softly smiled, pretending to believe her fib. 

_Sure._ As a _‘friend.’_

If there was one thing he could easily read about other people, it was attraction. This lady cop was definitely attracted to his son, and it made Martin glow with pride and excitement.

“What’s up with you today?” Dani asked.

Malcolm looked back at the house, then said, “Just… a little upset. Is all.” He elaborated, “My father called.”

Dani gave him an empathetic expression, then wondered, “Is everything okay between you two?”

“We’re going through a bit of a rough patch in our relationship,” he shrugged. “But he’ll come around. He always does.”

Like his little boomerang.

Dani carefully offered, “Well, you know I’m here for you. If you ever need… anything.”

Malcolm smirked at the word, _‘anything.’_

He allowed himself to look a little vulnerable, and admitted, “I think I just need... a bit of a _release._ I’ve been… _bottling up_ so much, inside. For a long, _long_ time.”

Dani fell for it.

“Yeah. I get that,” she nodded. “If you need somebody to talk to, I’d be happy to lend an ear.”

Martin hid a smile. He wasn't interested in her _ears,_ and he hadn’t been referring to _talking._

“Do you think you could... come over tonight?” he ventured cautiously, giving her a boyish wince. “To my place?”

Dani nodded again. “Yeah. Sure. Eight?”

“Eight’s great.” He smiled at the rhyme.

“Okay,” She gave him a worried look and glanced over him again as she wandered back towards the crime scene. “You hang in there, alright?”

He smirked at that piece of advice and nodded. “Oh, I am."

The lady cop turned away and joined up with that male cop again before they both went inside the taped-off house. Martin watched her for as long as he could, his mind wandering as he admired her legs.

He flinched as he was smacked in the back of the head.

Whirling around, he saw his daughter standing behind him.

“What did I say about exclusivity?” Ainsley demanded, giving him a healthy dose of attitude. “Stop ogling your damn coworkers and give me a call once in a while, will ya?”

Martin rubbed the back of his head as the blonde left to set up her camera shot. He gave the girl a small glare before he slid into his car.


	16. Group Therapy

Mr. David led Malcolm through the halls of Claremont, his hand lightly around the profiler’s arm. It was a much easier trip than the one they’d taken through the halls yesterday, when Mr. David had doubted the boy’s transplanted identity. This time, the guard did not expect his charge to know the way to their destination, and there was no dragging nor protestation involved.

Malcolm recognized a hall which he knew eventually led to the building’s entrance, and gave it a longing look as they passed. Mr. David gave him an empathetic expression, and they continued onward to group therapy.

For a moment, it took all the self control Malcolm had not to bolt away from the relaxed guard and take off down that hall in a desperate attempt to escape the asylum. Had he not known the obstacles he’d face on his way to the door, he might have taken that chance and made that insane maneuver. But he knew exactly what obstacles he’d face on his way to the door, and he knew he could not conquer them. Not looking like this.

He wished he could say that the further they ventured from that unmarked exit hallway, the easier it was to leave it behind them, but that wasn't true. The increasing distance seared his heart. It was enough to drive him mad all on its own.

Then Malcolm abruptly stopped walking, and his eyes went wide.

“My mom,” he realized. “We didn’t call my mom!”

His first instinct had been right. His mother would believe him, if nobody else. Even if he bore his father’s voice, his mother would still listen. She’d scoff and jab at him --pretend  _ not _ to believe him-- but after the call was over, she’d think about what her ‘ex-husband’ had said, and she’d begin to worry. She’d make it her personal goal to see that her son was safe.

And most importantly, _ watched. _

The profiler started to head the other way, But Mr. David held him back. “Malcolm, we can’t miss this therapy session.”

“But--!” Malcolm winced and glanced back the way they’d come. “Can  _ you _ go back and call her while I’m in the session?”

“I can’t leave you unattended,” Mr. David apologized.

Malcolm sighed in frustration. This was urgent. This was an  _ emergency. _ He regretted not calling Jessica before.

They continued walking.

“Let’s just hope this ends quickly.”

* * *

Group therapy did not end quickly.

It was scheduled for an hour and a half, but it wasn't like any of the attendees had anywhere else to be. It was held in a simple, open room with some chairs planted in a circle. Each patient’s guard stood behind them. The therapist, Dr. Jones, was an astute man with greying hair and plenty of experience under his belt.

Dr. Jones continued his discussion with another inmate named Lyle. Malcolm didn’t know what Lyle was convicted of, but based on the word ‘Misogyny’ tattooed across his forehead and a few other alarming symbols tattooed on his eyelids, it wasn't difficult to guess it was something violent and gang-related. Yet, his schizophrenic demeanor was relatively mild, and it was clear that his medication had done him good.

As Malcolm listened to the discussion, he saw the silver lining in the situation, and his impatience for it to be over melted away. He was attending a therapy session for a plethora of high profile criminals. The type of people who fascinated him. The type of people who he’d spent his entire life studying. This was a hands-on lesson, up close and in-person with some of the most complex and dangerous people on the East Coast.

Criminal psychology was Malcolm’s forte. It intrigued him. It thrilled him. He was certifiably  _ obsessed _ with murderers, all for the purpose of working towards their arrest. Here, Malcolm had a rare opportunity to witness their recovery. To find out the endings to their stories.

He listened intently to the group therapy session.

“Why did you do it?” Dr. Jones asked Lyle.

“I don't know why,” the tattooed man growled, fidgeting in his seat. “Everyone always asks me why and I’m telling ya, I don't know. I just  _ wanted  _ to.”

“Why did you want to?” Dr. Jones prompted.

Lyle separated his clasped hands to shake them, growing frustrated. “I don't know!”

A new voice entered the conversation.

“You wanted to hurt them because they hurt you.”

They all turned to look at Dr. Whitly, who had spoken so softly and simply to the man sitting across the circle from him.

“Yeah. Yeah, because they hurt me!” Lyle agreed, realizing it for the first time himself.

“Revenge motive delinquency,” Dr. Whitly identified. “It's rather common, especially among assault cases and gang conflicts. It’s also prevalent in vandalism offenses.”

The entire group stared at him.

Dr. Whitly cleared his throat and explained to Lyle, “Sometimes, when people get hurt… they think that hurting others is the only way to heal. I understand the inclination. But… I promise you, it doesn’t work like that. It doesn't help.” Massaging his hands, Malcolm continued, “Pain isn’t transferred, it’s only spread.”

“But, it can also be healed,” he added. “It’s just... really difficult to heal, sometimes.”

Lyle looked at him with a distant pain in his eyes.  _ “How _ do you heal it?” he asked.

Malcolm thought about that. “I think it depends on the person, and what kind of pain they’ve experienced. For me, I… I’ve found that talking to people helps. Friends and family.”

Lyle’s gaze dropped, and he picked at his broken, nicotine-stained nails. “Well, I ain’t got none of that, so…”

“Whoever is willing to listen,” Malcolm clarified. “Like us.” He gestured around the circle. “You have people all around you who are willing to listen.”

Lyle wasn't consoled.

Malcolm motioned politely to their therapist. “You have Dr. Jones. He’s really good at what he does, and I’m not just saying that. I’ve seen a lot of therapists,” he chuckled lightly. “Like, a  _ lot.” _

The room echoed his chuckle, some more nervous to follow suit than others.

He remained smiling, unashamed of his personal psychological journey, as long and arduous as it was. “Keep talking to him. Be open with him, and he will help you,” he advised earnestly.

After a moment, Lyle nodded, optimistically muttering, “Okay. Okay, yeah. I can do that.” He flashed a glance up at Dr. Jones and kept nodding.

Dr. Jones smiled. “Thank you Lyle.” Then, he turned to his other patient. “And thank  _ you, _ Martin. For those… uncharacteristically kind words.”

Malcolm donned a sheepish smile, but he felt a trickle of dismay snake through his heart. He’d been so immersed in listening to the therapy session, he’d nearly forgotten that he was stuck in his father’s body. It was an unpleasant reminder.

When the therapy session finally ended, each patient --escorted by their guard-- left one at a time. Malcolm eagerly waited for his and Mr. David’s turn to exit the room, but they didn’t get the chance.

“Martin. I’d like to have you stay.”

Malcolm glanced over to Dr. Jones again. _ “Stay?” _ That was the last thing he wanted.

Dr. Jones nodded. “I know we don’t have another private session scheduled until Monday, but I wanted to talk with you a little more.”

Malcolm looked to Mr. David for help, but Mr. David could not help him. He was only a glorified babysitter. Claremont’s psychiatrists held more authority.

“I would prefer it if we waited until Monday,” Malcolm answered carefully, and with as much respect as possible. He gestured at the door with a wince. “I have someone expecting a call from me, and I--”

“I’m sure Mr. David can allow you to make your call after we’re done,” the doctor looked to the guard, permitting it.

“Um, yes, but… I really need to make that call  _ now,” _ Malcolm pleaded. He should have made it hours ago. “It’s very important.” 

“Your mental health is important, too,” Dr. Jones advocated. He gestured at the circle of empty chairs. “Have a seat, Martin.”

Malcolm reluctantly reclaimed his seat, feeling like a child trapped in the principal’s office after hours.

“You did something today that caught my attention,” Dr. Jones tilted his head. “You showed empathy and compassion toward others.”

Malcolm listened with his cuffed hands in his lap, guilty as charged.

The psychiatrist chuckled softly. “Now, this shouldn’t be news to you, but… you’re not known for doing that very much around here. At least, not genuinely. But today, I think you were genuine.”

“I was,” Malcolm murmured honestly.

Dr. Jones nodded thoughtfully. “May I ask…  _ why? _ Has something... changed?”

“Um… yes, actually,” Malcolm swallowed, then lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “A  _ lot  _ has changed.”

In the background, Mr. David did his best to hide a similar expression.

Dr. Jones waited for his patient to elaborate.

Malcolm though hard about what he could explain, then shrugged and admitted, “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I  _ couldn’t  _ sleep. I was up all night. Thinking.” Malcolm looked down at his hands as he massaged his knuckles, growing more disheartened when he was reminded that they  _ weren’t  _ his hands. They were his father’s. He stopped massaging them and tried to hide them between his knees so he didn’t have to look at them anymore. “Thinking back on... a lot of things.”

“Would you like to share some of those things?” Dr. Jones asked.

Malcolm’s mind whirled with calculations on how he could get himself out of this room in the fastest manner possible. “I think it’d be best if I shared them on Monday, when we have more time to--”

“Could you just share  _ one  _ thing?” Dr. Jones encouraged. He was indeed a very good therapist --meaning he was a very stubborn and patient one. 

After taking a breath, Malcolm nodded. “Sure.”

Evidently, the fastest way to get out of here was to simply open up and _ talk. _

Malcolm searched for something he could talk about, and found that he didn’t have to search all that hard. “I haven’t told you very much about my father, have I?” he guessed, knowing that Dr. Whitly  _ never  _ talked about his old man.

Dr. Jones shrugged. “Just that he did some terrible things to you when you were young.”

Malcolm figured as much. But he wasn't  _ really  _ talking about his grandfather. He was talking about his  _ own  _ father. “Yeah, well… more than that, he… he did terrible things to  _ other  _ people. And I’ve always felt guilty about that.”

Dr. Jones tried not to show his confusion. “You have?”

“Yes. I’ve always felt like… like I should have done something about it, or I should have known, or… I should have somehow made him stop,” Malcolm confessed. “Eventually, I  _ did  _ do something about it. But it was too late.”

He felt that same way now. He felt like by the time he’d be able to do anything about his father’s mischief, it would be too late.

“I always feared that one day I’d end up just like him.” Malcolm looked down at his hands again. His  _ father’s  _ hands. “I guess, now, I have.”

Dr. Jones thought about that for a moment, then asked, “Did your father ever feel empathy or remorse?”

“I don’t think so,” Malcolm answered. “Sometimes I doubt he’s even capable of it.”

“Then you’re already far different from him.”

Malcolm looked up at the therapist. 

“You showed me today that you have  _ empathy  _ for others,” Dr. Jones told him. “That is the foundation of being a good person. And so long as you continue to have empathy for others, you will be well on your way to becoming a better person.”

Malcolm thought about that, and smiled back.

“Whatever happened in your past,” Dr. Jones mused, “I think you have a very bright future ahead of you.”

A revitalizing hope spread through Malcolm’s chest, and he suddenly felt much more like himself. “Thank you, Doctor.”

The therapist smiled. “Now go make that phone call.”


	17. Attendance

The doorbell rang in two notes --the second lower than the first, like a pair of doomsday chimes.

Dani did not wait for long. Malcolm soon opened the door with a beaming smile on his face and a cheerful, “Welcome!” on his grinning lips. He wore dark dress pants and a deep maroon button-up that appeared to be made of satin. His sleeves here cuffed at his elbows, exposing his perfect forearms and hugging his toned deltoids. “Please, come in,” he invited, stepping back to hold the door open for her.

The lady cop stepped inside, but she did not return his smile. Instead, she turned to face him and folded her arms over her chest. “Gil said you quit.” 

“Oh, yes.” He tenderly closed the door behind her and answered, “That’s because I did.” The profiler’s smile did not leave his face, and his upbeat demeanor did not dissipate.

Dani was appalled. _“Why?”_

“Just needed to make a change,” Malcolm shrugged, as if he’d altered something as insignificant as his diet. Curiously, he inquired, “What else did Gil say?”

“Not much. He seemed pretty upset.”

Malcolm’s smile shone like the sun.

Dani glowered and shook her head at him. “What happened between you two?”

“Don’t worry about it,” the young man advised while gently glancing up and down her figure. Then, with a knowing smirk, he led the way to the kitchen. “Are you afraid you won’t get to see me as often?”

“No,” Dani lied. “I just-”

She stopped after she turned to see the kitchen. A vase of roses dominated the island counter, accompanied by a neat cluster of glowing candles. Two placemats and an array of polished silverware lay in wait. Dani also noticed the faint melody of classical music playing from Malcolm's study.

The very romantic (and equally unexpected) scene not only stunned her, but also twisted her heart and warmed the skin of her cheeks. Taking a moment to close her eyes and suppress her emotions, she sighed. Then she gave the profiler a look and asked, “Candles? Really?”

“Do you not like candles? I can put them away if the scent bothers you,” he offered, taking a step towards them.

Dani didn't know how to answer him. She stuttered, “N-no, I don’t mind the… scent. I just… it’s a little overkill, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” he hummed, then held out his hand to her. “May I take your coat?”

“Um… sure,” Dani mumbled, shrugging off her leather jacket. Malcolm helped peel it off her shoulders with a smile, then took it to the rack by the door.

It was a charming, gentlemanly, and thoughtful gesture. It made her heart flutter, but it made her feel uneasy at the same time. Maybe that was just because she wasn’t accustomed to being treated like a lady. Maybe it was because she’d only ever daydreamed about Bright lighting candles for her and taking her coat before sitting down to dinner with her. Or maybe it was because she still didn’t understand why Malcolm was acting so strange that day. This was just a very sweet cherry on top of a very unusual sundae.

Dani floated toward the kitchen as if in a trance --only to verify that the objects in front of her were tangible and not an illusion.

“If anything, Dani, I think you’ll be seeing more of me, now,” Malcolm announced from the coat rack. “We can spend time together as friends, instead of coworkers.” As he rejoined her in the kitchen, he shyly suggested, “Maybe even… more than friends? If you’d like.”

Dani turned to look at him, at a loss for words. He waited patiently, a boyish smile of caution and hope on his face as if he’d just asked his crush to a school dance. She tried not to stare at that beautiful smile on his lips. Instead, she arranged her thoughts and evaded his proposal by reminding him, “I didn’t come over for a date, Malcolm. I came over because you said you needed someone to talk to.”

It was clear by her tone that she felt he’d been dishonest to her, and had led her into some kind of trap, however sweet of a trap it was.

“I _do_ need someone to talk to,” he attested. Gesturing to the candles and roses, he explained innocently, “This is simply how I show my appreciation for your time and company.”

Tripped by guilt, Dani glanced to the countertop again and didn’t say anything more. The roses _were_ pretty, and the candles smelled heavenly. Malcolm proudly moved through the dimly-lit kitchen to dish up two plates of steaming food from a pan on the stovetop. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Dani sighed as she took a seat at a barstool, finding it difficult to simply enjoy his kindness.

“I wanted to. Especially for you,” he smiled, bringing the plates over and placing one delicately in front of her. It was a colorful rice dish, seasoned and garnished with bits of vegetables mixed in. A divine, flavorful aroma wafted up from it.

She gawked at it. “What is this?”

“It’s a garden risotto,” He answered warmly, listing, “It has tomatoes, apasargus, spinach, peas… um… leek, bell peppers.”

Dani glanced between him and the plate, convinced this was a joke. Since when did Malcolm… _cook?_

Since when did he have _anything_ stocked in his kitchen beyond a jar of licorice? She scanned the room, finding it unfamiliar. It was an actual kitchen now, equipped with a food processor and an insta-pot and a mixer. He even had a few potted herbs in the corner, and a brimming wine rack with a selection of expensive brands she’d never even heard of before.

He followed her gaze and asked, “Would you like a drink?” Stepping over to the wine rack, he removed a bottle of a full-bodied red wine from it. “I think you’d love this one.”

“Just water, for now,” she declined politely. 

“You sure?” He fetched a pair of burgundy glasses from the cupboards. “Don't you want something with more... flavor?”

“No, water’s fine,” she repeated, curiously digging through her risotto with her spoon. _Malcolm made this?_ She hesitantly grinned as a humored disbelief bubbled up from her shock. Her face grew flushed all over again. _Malcolm made this, for her._ Perhaps she should take a picture and send it to JT. He’d never believe her if she told him Malcolm was secretly a five star chef.

“Alright,” Malcolm murmured, turning his back to her as he filled the glasses. In the process, he slipped something out from his pocket, emptied it into one glass, then thumbed it back into hiding. The sly addition of the extra ingredient went unnoticed by his guest.

Dani looked up as he placed a drink in front of her. It was not water.

His smile was playful and unapologetic. “Enough wine for a toast, at least?” he enticed, lifting his glass.

She refrained from rolling her eyes and reluctantly picked up her glass of strong red wine.

“To freedom,” Malcolm grinned, touching their glasses together before bringing his to his lips and taking a sip.

Their eyes did not leave the other’s as Dani did the same. However, instead of taking a sip of her wine, Dani paused. She set the glass back down on the counter and drilled him with a _look._

He briefly avoided her look by glancing at her untouched glass, then endured her gaze with a guarded expression, doing his best to mask his disappointment and irritation. 

“Malcolm.” Her tone said she meant business. No more romantic bullshit allowed. He couldn’t charm his way out of this one. “What happened to you?”

“Call it a mid life crisis,” he joked. Slightly more seriously, he shrugged, “Or, an awakening.”

She squinted at him. “A what?”

“I just…” he sighed as he took his seat at the barstool beside her. “I woke up today and… realized I wasn't happy with how I was living my life.”

Dani folded her arms on the counter and stared at him with an even, non-judgemental gaze while she listened. _Finally,_ he was cutting the act. _Finally,_ he was opening up and actually talking to her.

“I’ve been alone in this apartment all by myself. I’ve lost precious time with my family. I have no friends. _Few_ friends, I mean, and… a dead-end job, with the same old routine every day. I see so much death and chasing after all these criminals, it’s… exhausting. It takes a toll on a person. You know?”

“Yeah,” she nodded empathetically. “You’ve been through a lot, Malcolm.”

Reluctantly, he nodded back and yielded, “I have. So… can you blame me for… wanting to break free of it all? To try something different? To have _fun,_ for once?”

“No, I can’t,” she gave him a half smile and then glanced down at her food again. Just because Malcolm had changed --seemingly overnight-- that didn’t mean he’d changed in a bad way. Maybe taking a break was good for him. _Healthy_ for him.

Maybe.

But...

She turned her gaze back to him. “But you love your job. You love helping people.”

Mimicking her posture, he folded his arms on the counter and shrugged. “I can love other things, too, can’t I?”

He looked at her. _Really_ looked at her, and she fell headfirst into his eyes. She thought there was something in them, something she’d always wanted to see. He looked at her with such gentle intensity, she was almost certain that she saw _love_ in them. Love that was reserved for _her._

Her suspicions proved to be accurate when he whispered, “Like you.”

Dani’s heart hammered within her chest, and she tried to identify what was fueling it; excitement… or fear. She couldn’t tell. She also couldn’t tell if this was real, or one of her fantasies.

Perhaps there was only one way to find out.

She didn’t realize how close they’d gravitated toward each other until Malcolm’s cell phone rang, shattering the spell between them.

Their magnetism reversed as they both pulled away from each other, Dani blinking herself back into reality and Malcolm sighing in frustration as he pulled out the electronic device from his pocket and glared at the caller I.D.

It was his ex-wife.

“Way to kill the mood, Jess,” he muttered under his breath, declining the call and silencing the phone before dropping it on the counter, out of the way.

He turned his attention back to the lady cop with a deceivingly bright smile on his face. “Sorry. Where were we? Oh, the toast. Right.” He grabbed his glass and raised it, expectantly waiting for her to join the gesture.

Dani did not pick up her glass. She furrowed her brow at his ignored phone. “You aren’t going to answer that?”

He made a face and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter right now,” he assured. He lightly pushed her wine glass nearer to her. She accepted it only because he was sliding it dangerously close to the edge of the counter, and she didn’t want it to accidentally spill.

“What matters right now, is _you,_ and _me,_ and our _toast.”_ Dipping his head at her, he smiled and encouraged her to participate by touching their glasses together once again.

Dani studied him cautiously, then slowly brought the wine glass to her lips.

The phone lit aglow with stark blue light as another silent call came to the rescue.

Malcolm quickly reached back to turn the thing face down. The counter was still illuminated beneath it, the glowing blue light refusing to be completely smothered out.

“What if it's about the case?” Dani asked, her glass hovering in front of her. Surely, an update on the murder case would matter to Malcolm.

“It’s not. It’s my mother,” he grumbled.

“And that _doesn’t_ matter?” Dani winced. The profiler was just saying that he’d lost precious time with his family. His actions seemed to directly contradict his words.

“She calls me all the time. I’m sure it's nothing. If it was important, it would--”

“Keep ringing? ‘Cause that’s what it’s doing,” Dani sassed.

Malcolm’s voice grew slightly terse. “Ignore it, my dear.”

 _My dear?_ Perturbed by the very uncharacteristic and borderline condescending nickname, Dani snapped, “Answer the Goddamn phone, Bright!”

“Fine!” He snatched up the device, hovered his thumb over the green button, and then attempted one last desperate toast. “To phones?”

“To phones,” Dani permitted, raising her glass to touch his before returning hers to her mouth. 

Martin eagerly watched the crimson liquid rush to her lips, then seep between them.

Somewhat relaxing, he took an unceremonious swig of his own untainted drink and then tapped the green button on the cell phone as he left his barstool to pace the space beside the iron staircase. “Hello, _mother dearest,”_ he greeted his caller with a blatant false cheer.

Dani noticed the bitterness beneath his tone. To her, it almost sounded like a disguised growl. That was exactly what it was.

Her expression soured, and not solely due to the alcohol swirling around her tongue. The fermented flavor was overwhelmingly acidic. She sneakily purged the liquid from her mouth, returning it all back into the glass before setting it down on the counter. Grimacing from the lingering taste, she decided there was no way she was swallowing that. It was _way_ too strong, and she wasn't interested in getting tipsy tonight.

Her little trick went unnoticed by her host, who was occupied with a rather unwelcome distraction.

“Malcolm, what is this I hear about you being in danger?” Jessica Whitly gasped over the phone.

Martin made a face. “Oh. Did, ah…. Did _‘dad’_ call you?”

“No, Mister David did.”

The false profiler closed his eyes and grit his teeth.

Behind him, Dani pretended to pick at her risotto while listening to his half of the conversation.

“He said someone’s coming for you! What the hell is going on, son?”

“Nothing. No one’s coming for me,” Martin assured her with a laugh. “You have absolutely _no_ reason to worry your little heart, alright?”

“Well, it’s too late. I’m worried,” Jessica announced. “I’m sending the cops to watch over your apartment.”

Martin stopped pacing, and his heart skipped a beat. _“What?”_

“You heard me, young man.”

With a flare of panic, Martin urged, “Jess-- Mom, nonono, don’t-- you don’t need to do that--!”

“It’s already done. They’re on their way.”

Her word was law, and she’d brought down the gavel hard.

‘Malcolm’ hung up the phone and spat out a loud, “Fuck!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lied. Taking a deep breath, he wildly scanned everything around him, recalculating his situation like a madman. ”We should… reschedule.” Performing a double-take at her wine glass, he rushed over and snatched it, carrying it to the sink to dump it down the drain and briskly rinse it out.

Dani watched him scurry around the apartment like a frightened mouse. “Malcolm?”

“It’s uh... a family emergency,” he sputtered, drying his hands and then running to snatch his overcoat --almost forgetting his keys. “Gotta go. Feel free to stick around, if you’d like. Make yourself at home!”

He practically flew out the door, slamming it shut behind him without even an apology or a 'goodbye.' She could hear his footsteps storming down the stairs.

Bewildered, Detective Powell slowly blinked, then glanced at candles, still burning. The two plates of food still steamed beside her, one nearly-full glass of wine resting beside Malcolm's plate.

Then she looked at the sink, where an empty burgundy glass lied on its side, still glistening with tap water.


	18. Absence

Jessica arrived to see a patriotic light show flashing in front of her son’s home. Illuminated by a strobing of red and blue, she clasped her fur coat around her collar and stepped out of the back of the Cadillac to look up at her son’s observatory window. The lights were on in the apartment, and she could see the shadows of police officers moving around. She hurried inside.

A team of cops was searching the flat for any signs of unusual activity or hidden bugs. A certain detective turned to see Ms. Whitly come in, once again wearing her leather jacket. She was standing with another detective, and their conversation stopped as Jessica rushed over to the two people she recognized. “Where’s Malcolm?”

“He’s... gone,” Detective Powell frowned.

“What?”

JT explained, “Apparently, right after you called, he booked it like a bat out of hell.”

“He ran away?” Jessica wailed.

“I’m sorry, Miss Whitly,” Dani apologized. “I should have stopped him, but I didn’t know--”

Jessica snapped, “Do we know where he went?”

Dani answered apologetically, “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

JT shook his head. “Not a clue.”

“Jess.”

Jessica turned as another officer joined them, and her flustered panic subsided at the sight of, “Gil.” But then the feelings returned, and she tried to pull her eyes away from him in an attempt to ignore her heartbreak. It didn’t work. Her voice was tangled with emotion as she asked the lieutenant, “Where’s Malcolm?”

“I don’t know, he’s… not answering our calls,” Gil sighed with a tired dismay.

Jessica stepped toward him with worry and desperation on her face. “Mister David called me. Martin’s guard. He said somebody’s after him!”

“Yeah, Martin called me earlier and told me something similar,” Gil nodded. “I didn't believe him, but I guess it's true.”

Jessica began to panic as she massaged her temples. “I shouldn’t have called Malcolm. I-I didn’t think he’d run! Oh my god, this is my fault.”

“This is not your fault.” Gil reached out to touch her shoulder in comfort, but she moved away with a quick, “Don’t.”

He drew his hand back. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s--” Jessica felt terrible. She tried to explain, “I just don’t want… I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“About what?”

“About us,” she sighed. Miserably, she reminded, “You have a girlfriend, Gil.”

Lieutenant Arroyo blinked. “I do?”

The other detectives’ expressions distorted in confusion.

Gil’s expression was the most perplexed of all. “No, I don’t. What are you talking about?”

Jessica glanced between them all and told them, “Malcolm said a girl visits your office sometimes, an old fling from college...”

They stared at her.

Gil glanced down at his shoes. “Yeah, well... Malcolm’s said a lot of strange things lately.”

“He was lying?” Jessica gasped, appalled.

Dani shook her dark curls. “Miss Whitly, I promise, Gil hasn’t had any visits from some girl.”

JT pitched in with a blunt, “Yeah, I thought the lieutenant was dating  _ you.” _

Both Jessica and Gil blushed. The lieutenant cleared his throat and gave JT a look before murmuring to Jessica, “Let’s talk about this another time, shall we?”

Overcome with relief, the socialite smiled at him. But her concern for her son resurfaced. “You said Malcolm has said a lot of strange things lately. Like what?”

“Um.” Lieutenant Arroyo looked at his detectives again. “Guys, a moment, please?”

Dani and JT left them to their privacy without question.

Jessica pinned all of her attention on the lieutenant, however the man still struggled to admit, “He said…. He said I was the worst thing that ever happened to him. That I... ruined his life, and destroyed his future.”

“What?” Jessica hissed. “Malcolm did  _ not _ say that!”

“He did,” Gil nodded, appearing very worn out.

“No, Malcolm loves you!” Jessica reached out to touch his arm. She gave it a squeeze and a shake. “He adores you! He couldn’t have said…” She trailed off as the pieces all came together in her head. “Oh my god. I know what he’s doing,” she gawked. “It’s all an act, Gil, don’t you see? He’s pushing us away. He’s distancing himself from us. To protect us!”

Some kind of life returned to Gil’s eyes as he saw the light. “You're right. That is what he’s doing. That’s the only explanation.”

Ms. Whitly held his arms tightly. “Gil, we have to find him before he does something stupid!”

He touched her shoulders, then brushed her hair behind her ears and held her face. “We will. I promise, Jess, we will.” After planting a quick but deep kiss on her forehead, he parted from her to go find Malcolm.


	19. Reunion

The doorbell rang in three notes, each one higher than the one before, as if it had a goal to lift the spirits of all who heard its music. However, Malcolm wasn't uplifted, and he wasn’t waiting in the stairway for long.

Ainsley opened the door, wearing a pair of soft pajama bottoms and a grey tank top. “Thanks for calling, for once,” she smirked.

Her expression fell when her brother didn’t return any sort of smile. He didn’t look like himself at all. His bangs were hanging in front of his eyes and he wasn't wearing a tie over his button-up shirt like he usually did. He looked half put-together --or perhaps half coming apart.

“Is everything okay?” Ainsley asked. “You sounded out of breath over the phone.”

“Just had a bad day,” he muttered, brushing past her to enter the apartment.

Ainsley closed the door behind him, rolling her eyes. “I don’t suppose you wanna talk about it?”

“No, I don’t,” he growled. “I didn’t come over to talk, Ains, I came over to--”

He stopped as he noticed the far wall. It was entirely made of windows, and the apartment’s skyscraper status provided a postcard-worthy view of The Big Apple. “Wow. Look at that,” he whispered, distracted from his grumpiness by the stunning sight.

“Yeah, it’s why this place costs so much,” Ainsley chuckled. She joined him in front of the glass wall. They stood there together for a moment, side by side, surveying the sparkling city lights which spanned for miles before them. After some time, the blonde smiled over at him. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“It’s spectacular,” Martin breathed, mesmerized by the vast maze of the city. He could have stared at it forever. He scoffed, “I haven’t seen New York like this in…” Sadness floated across his face, wiping the weak smile from his lips as he finished, “A long time.”

A very, very long time.

“You need to get out more,” Ainsley told him, walking away to return to her living room, which was composed of a designer couch and a 4K TV.

Martin remained prisoner to the view, yet he smiled tiredly in response to her words. He noticed that one of the panes of glass was open near the girl’s bed, the window frame tilted outward at an angle to allow a cool breeze into the flat. Stepping up to the opening, he curiously stuck his head out and peered downward. It was an incredibly long way to the street, and the height thrilled him.

“I was watching Dexter. You wanna join? I can give you a recap.”

Martin left the window and glanced over at his daughter--and at the show that was paused on her television screen. “Dexter?”

“Yeah. He’s like... if you and dad were merged into the same person. Kind of.” She flopped down onto the couch and pressed the arrow buttons on her remote controller. “Solves murder cases by day, kills other murderers by night. We can watch something else if you’d like.”

“No, that sounds… extremely interesting,” Martin settled down beside her, and she resumed the episode she’d been watching before he arrived.

They relaxed on the couch together for a while, their shoulders touching as they subtly cuddled in the platonic way that family members often unknowingly do. The show was good, and Martin had nothing negative to say about it, except for one murder scene where he pointed out the incorrect qualities of a wound.

“Blood is usually bubbly when it’s coming directly from the lungs,” he muttered in conclusion. 

“And it’s a darker shade of red when it’s coming directly from the heart,” Ainsley pitched in.

He looked over at her. “Yes, it is. How did you know that?”

“I’ve seen some shit, too, you know,” she muttered, keeping her eyes calmly fixed on the screen as the grotesque murder scene continued to flash across it. “Being a reporter.”

Martin slowly pulled his gaze back to the show, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I suppose so.” He’d never thought about his daughter’s experiences in the field, only Malcolm’s.

When the episode ended, she readied another one, asking, “How long are you staying?”

“The night,” he answered. “If that’s okay with you.”

Ainsley furrowed her brow, but mumbled, “I mean, sure, I guess, but, why?”

He shrugged and answered, “Too tired to drive.”

“You know Uber is a thing.”

Martin assumed that was a taxi service. “No, it’s alright,” he waved the offer away. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okayyyy,” Ainsley drawled. She decided to accept the unexpected (and unexplained) turn of events, and instead thought about how to accommodate her new, self-appointed sleepover buddy. “You get the bed,” she decided, turning off the television.

“I’m fine with the couch, Ains.”

“Nope. Come on.” The reporter pulled him up to drag him to the designated bedroom area of the open floor plan. “You need the bed,” she stated, sitting him down on it. The gentle breeze from the open window played at some stray wisps of her long blonde hair as she rummaged through a drawer in the nightstand.

While watching her, her brother asked, “Why?”

“Because you have _night terrors.”_ Ainsley closed the drawer and held up a loop of silk fabric between her hands. Playfully, she tugged it taut. “And the bed has _bed restraints.”_

Malcolm jumped at the snapping sound of the silk. As Ainsley revealed a second loop, he stared at the fabric and hesitantly smiled, “Is that...?”

It was. Bondage silk. Straight out of an adult boutique.

Ainsley gently took his wrist and began winding the silk around it. “I’m not wasting all my makeup covering your bruises again. You’re wearing these tonight.”

“So _you’re_ the one with the bedroom kink!” he grinned excitedly. “I would have _never_ guessed.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” she smirked proudly. Then, she lightly pushed on his shoulder to have him lie on his back.

“I’ll say,” Malcolm smiled as he complied, watching her tie both of his wrists to the bed frame above his head. “You’ve done this a lot, haven’t you?” he observed with a snicker.

“Shut up,” she laughed. When she finished tying the loops, she childishly declared, “Now you’re trapped!”

“Am I?” He grinned at the challenge and tested the fashionable manacles, twisting his hands and playing with various angles of tension. It was to no avail. “Oh. Maybe I am,” he murmured, a little embarrassed.

“Not really,” she giggled, reaching over to show him the trick. “To get out of them, you just wiggle this cinch up a little, then undo this twist, and slip your hand out. It’s easy.”

It _was_ rather easy, now that he knew the secret. Too easy. He undid his other wrist one-handed, almost disappointed by how simple of a task it was. He sat up and examined the silk ropes for himself. “I think I prefer _chains,”_ he decided with a smirk.

“Well, these will do for tonight,” Ainsley smiled, pulling out her phone to set an alarm. “What time are you waking up?”

Martin continued examining the slik, testing out different knots around his wrist like he was playing with a puzzle toy. “Oh, probably... four.”

“Four? That early?”

He fastened one loop securely to the bed frame and then tried attaching the second loop to the end of it to make a longer fetter. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I want to beat the traffic.”

Ainsley watched him fiddle with the fabric. “Where are you going?”

He shrugged and dropped the tail end of the extended silk rope onto the bed, his curiosity satiated. “Wherever the wind takes me. I’ve wanted to go on vacation for a while. Maybe the mountains again.”

“Well... good.” Ainsley hesitantly nodded, supposing, “You deserve a break.” She continued setting her phone alarm to four in the morning.

Malcolm gazed at her for a moment before uttering, “Come with me, Ains.”

Once again, she paused and looked up. “What?”

“Come with me,” he repeated softly. Eagerness and a cautious hope fueled his smile as he continued, “We could travel _together._ I haven’t been able to spend time with you like I’ve wanted.”

She gave him a look. “We already spend _plenty_ of time together.”

“Not enough,” he said, shaking his head. “Not nearly enough, Ains. I want to do _more_ with you. I want to _teach_ you things. I want to show you... a whole new world!” he pitched.

She scoffed incredulously. “Okay, Aladdin.”

“I’m serious, Ainsley.”

The reporter studied him with a scrutinous look, and it was clear he was very, very serious about his invitation.

She spread her hands and protested, “I have _work,_ Malcolm, I can’t just go on some spontaneous vacation with you!”

“You’ll find new work,” he told her, a renewed optimism spreading across his face. “You could become an artist!”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Art’s... not really my thing.”

“It could be,” he murmured warmly. “I’ll teach you.”

Ainsley glared into her brother’s gaze, afraid of finding something unfamiliar in it. “You’re starting to sound like a crazy person, you know that?”

Malcolm tilted his head at her, once again pleading, “Come with me, Ains. We would be so good together.”

At a loss for what to say, Ainsley hesitated. Before she could formulate a polite way to decline his pressing offer, her phone rang, sparing her from giving Malcolm the answer he didn’t want to hear.

“It’s Mom,” she said after looking at the screen.

“Don’t answer it,” he grumbled, his smile gone.

“Why?”

“Just don’t,” he repeated firmly. When she swiped the green button and brought it up to her ear anyway, he angrily hissed, _“Ainsley!”_

The reporter ignored him. “Hey Mom.”

Martin forced his voice into a whisper, hissing silently, _“I'm not here.”_

Ainsley glared at him as Jessica’s voice prattled from the muffled phone.

Martin vehemently whispered, “I mean it, Ains. _I'm not here.”_

Giving him a frown, she looked down at her bedspread and played with the soft comforter while she listened to their mother. “No, I just got home a couple hours ago. What’s up?”

Martin waited impatiently, staring at her with daggers in his eyes --which he would not be afraid to use if she betrayed him in his game of hide-and-seek. He watched her reaction shift from concern to befuddlement to irritation and back again.

“Really? Oh. Okay. Yeah, I’ll let you know if I hear from him. Don’t worry, alright? Love you.”

After Ainsley hung up, she lowered her phone and cocked her head at her brother with the _worst_ look of trouble she’d ever given him. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her look said it all.

“I can explain,” he quickly defended, holding a hand up.

Her voice was as cold as ice. “Please do.”

He didn’t know where to begin. “What did she say to you?” he asked, wondering how to craft his next lie.

 _“Apparently_ there’s a bad guy hunting you down!” Ainsley burst. “Is that true? Is that the real reason you’re leaving tomorrow?”

Martin thought about that for a second, and answered, “Yyyyes. Yes, that’s the real reason.”

Ainsley reached over to snatch up a pillow and smack him with it. She hit him so hard, it almost toppled him over. “What the _HELL,_ Malcolm!?”

 _“What!?”_ With a victimized wail, he tried to bat the pillow away.

“Why did you run away from the cops!?” she demanded, standing over him threateningly.

Her brother now held the pillow as if it were a shield. He struggled to argue, “Because--!” Then he found a new pathway through the web of lies. “Because I can’t trust them, Ains! The person looking for me is one of them!”

“Who!?” she cried.

“I don’t know!” he attested, lowering the pillow to reason with her. “I can’t trust any of them until I know exactly who it is.”

Ainsley calmed down from her fit of anger, and her voice softened. “Why didn’t you tell me all this? What if the guy comes here!?” she gestured around the flat.

“No one’s gonna--”

Martin was interrupted by the music of the doorbell. A knocking followed, and a hush fell over them.

Ainsley pointed at the door in exasperation.

“Don’t answer it,” Martin ordered in a whisper, but his daughter was already storming off. _“Ainsley!”_ he snarled, sitting up and moving the pillow aside as if he was preparing to run after her. _“Don’t!”_

 _“Shhh!”_ she hissed back at him. “I’m just checking who it is, God!”

He continued to call after her under his breath, _“Listen to me! Ainsley, don’t!”_

Ainsley snuck up to the door and peered through the peephole. Instantly, she relaxed and tossed back a relieved, “It’s just Gil.”

They could trust Gil.

Martin hissed a furious _“Don’t!”_ but it was too late. The reporter unlocked and opened the door.

The lieutenant greeted her with a somber, “Hey, kiddo, how ya doing?”

“Fine,” Ainsley mumbled tiredly. “Mom just called.”

“Oh. Yeah, I was coming to tell you.”

The blonde gave him a half smile of appreciation. “Are you... alone?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Ainsley didn’t answer him.

Gil raised his head, resting its weight on the back of his neck. “He’s here, isn’t he?” he accurately guessed. Gently, he called, “Malcolm?”

He was answered by a distant, grouchy, “Go. Away,” in Malcolm’s voice.

“He’s in a bad mood,” Ainsley explained. It was the only explanation she had for her brother.

“Let me talk to him.”

She stepped aside and let the officer in, closing the door behind him.

Malcolm was still sitting on the bed, pouting with a peeved look in his eyes. A look that could kill. “Did you forget what I said earlier?” he growled. “I gave you a _warning,_ Lieutenant.”

“I know, kid,” Gil sighed. He came to stand in the center of the open space. “I understand what you’re doing.”

A spiteful smirk flashed across Malcolm’s face. “Oh? And what’s that?” he asked mockingly.

Ainsley folded her arms over her chest and hovered somewhere between them and out of the way, careful to position herself in a neutral stance so that her body language wasn’t reading ‘two against one.’

“You’re trying to protect us,” Gil answered.

Malcolm burst with a cruel chuckle and rubbed his head as if the lieutenant's words were funny enough to give him a migraine.

The officer continued, “You’re distancing yourself from us so we don’t get hurt.”

“Ohhh, man.” Malcolm stood up from the bed, grinned at the view of the city beside it, and pointed out the obvious. “If that was the case, would I be here right now?”

Gil’s certainty wavered, and he glanced at Ainsley. She looked just as uncertain as he did.

“You always have to ruin everything, don’t you, Arroyo?” Malcolm whispered with a smile. His voice was soaked in a sarcastic sweetness as he gestured at the blonde. “Ainsley and I were having _such_ a good time together, before you came along.”

Gil could tell the profiler wasn't himself. He was stressed, and at the end of his rope, and concealing it all with a painfully large smile. “Look, everything’s going to be okay, kid,” the lieutenant eased, taking a careful step forward. “We’ll find whoever this guy is, and we’ll catch him. But for now, let’s get you home. We’ve got cops stationed around the perimeter of your apartment, and you’ll be safe there.”

Malcolm calmly shook his head, still smiling. “I’m not going back there.” He wasn't talking about his apartment. The profiler took a bold step forward. _“You’re_ not going to _take_ me back there,” he threatened lowly. “Not _this time,_ you mother-fucking--”

“OKAY!” Ainsley jumped between them. “Let’s just calm the hell down, alright?” She threw a pointed look at her pissed-off brother, though she had no idea what he was so pissed-off about. “Malcolm, tell him what you told me.”

Malcolm ignored her, at least until he cast his stone cold gaze onto her and murmured, “I am very disappointed in you,” like she was dead to him.

Ainsley furrowed her brow in confusion, then faced Gil to do the explaining herself. “He said the person looking for him is--”

She sucked in a breath of surprise as her brother grabbed her from behind. The reporter stumbled as he hauled her away by the hair. “Ow, Malc--!” At first, she thought what he was doing was very rude and uncomfortable. Only after that did she realize what he was doing was very frightening, and painful.

“Malcolm!” Gil barked. He was just as stunned as Ainsley, and therefore reacted just as late. “Malcolm, stop! What are you doing!?” The officer stepped forward, but Malcolm was already across the room, having returned to the bed to force Ainsley down onto it.

Kneeling on the girl’s arms, Malcolm finished tying a knot around her two wrists with the bondage silk. “You should have listened to me, sweetheart.”

_Sweetheart?_

Ew. That was her _brother._

Then, it dawned on her.

Maybe that _wasn't_ her brother.

With the fabric tightly around her wrists, Ainsley felt herself tugged up again, shrieking, _“Malcolm!”_ with a panicked fury.

Scooping up her legs to hold her in the most non-chivalrous princess carry ever performed, Malcolm promptly turned around to face the open window.

“MALCOLM!” she screamed, trying to thrash out of his grip as soon as she caught an inkling of what he was doing. Gil echoed her cry as he pieced together the same conclusion.

But it was too late.

The profiler deposited her out the open window as casually as if he was dropping an envelope through a mailbox slot.

Cold outdoor air swarmed around her. The silk snapped taut, causing her to scream again as agony shot through her arms. The bed scooted from the sudden force of catching her weight. Her hips and knees bumped harshly against the exterior glass of the skyscraper, which was slick under her bare feet, providing no grip as she dangled out the window.

“Jesus Christ!” Gil ran forward.

Like a fleeing ghost, Malcolm flew past him, his face vacant of any emotion as he focused on his next order of business, getting through the door.

Torn between reaching Ainsley and stopping Malcolm, the lieutenant glanced back and yelled the boy’s name.

The profiler did not stop. He vanished through the door without a word, not bothering to close it behind him as he took to the stairs and escaped yet again.

It was an awkward, terrifying, and arduous process, but Gil managed to hoist Ainsley back through the window to the safety of solid ground. He then untied her wrists and held her as she cried. “Are you okay?”

 _“No!_ I was just thrown out a fucking _window!”_ She sobbed and curled into his chest. Her wrists were killing her --both either sprained or broken, and her shoulders dislocated at the very least. Hugging her tight, Gil fumbled for his radio and called for a paramedic.


	20. Recognition

Detective Powell marched through the halls with such determination and ferocity, it seemed as if the automatic doors were hurrying to get out of her way. The final door she passed through revealed a man slouching in his cot, a closed book in his hands.

Dr. Whitly sat up with a start, exhaling a surprised, “Dani?” The renewed hope and joy on his face soon faded as he remembered she would not return such excitement upon seeing him. “Um. What are you doing here?”

Dani put her hands on her hips. “I want to know more about the guy who’s supposedly gunning for Malcolm, according to you.”

“Uh…” Martin glanced at Mr. David, who was sitting in the corner, by the phone. They hadn’t fleshed out that elaborate of a backstory to Malcolm’s false ‘situation,’ and it would be a useless waste of time to craft one up now. “I think the main focus here is just… making sure we keep an eye on him,” he professed.

“Well, that’s kinda hard to do when he’s nowhere to be found,” Dani sassed.

Dr. Whitly looked afraid. “He’s gone?”

“Super gone,” Dani confirmed. “No one can find him anywhere, and the last person who saw him was me.”

Dr. Whitly looked even more afraid. “You?”

“He invited me over to his place after work, not that it’s any of your business,” she told him, somewhat defensive about it.

_ “What?”  _ Now Dr. Whitly looked terrified. He brought his hands up to briefly cup them over his face. “Oh, God. Are you okay?”

Dani quirked an expression. That was the  _ last  _ thing she expected Dr. Whitly to ask her. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she challenged, again overly-defensive about the whole experience.

Maybe she didn’t want to know the answer to that question. She recalled the wine glass, then tried to push it from her mind. Malcolm would never.

But then again, Malcolm had done a lot of things today that she never thought he’d do.

“Um,” Dr. Whitly took a deep, shaky breath, reacting as if he’d just heard the beginning of a horror story that could have ended very badly. “No reason. Just… he’s…he’s, um...”

“Not himself?” she finished.

Dr. Whitly rubbed his hands over his face and around to the back of his neck. “Yeah. Definitely not himself.”

“He was acting kind of weird,” Dani admitted. She squinted at him. “You are, too.” She took a step closer, crossing the painted red line. He wore no tethers or chains, but she was not afraid of him. She never was. “In fact, Malcolm’s been acting strange all day, and I think you’re the only one who knows why,” she confronted him, determined to get answers. “What’s going on?”

Looking miserable and exhausted, he studied her face. He seemed afraid of her, afraid  _ for  _ her, and helplessly longing for her to understand. “I wish I could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me if I did, and I wouldn’t blame you.”

She glared at him, suspicious of the honesty she detected in his voice.

“And it doesn’t make a difference as far as where he would be now,” Dr. Whitly finished. Despite his words, he remained open to her, willing to work with her, and maintained steady, agonized eye contact. “We have to find him, Dani. Where have you looked?”

Dani sighed and answered, “His apartment and his mother’s house are under close watch. He hasn’t shown up at the precinct again.”

Martin winced at the ‘again.’

“And… last I heard,” Dani hesitated to tell him, “he threw Ainsley out her bedroom window, so. There’s that.”

His desperate expression shattered with shock.  _ “What?” _

“She’s fine,” the detective reported. “Just bruised up, and freaked out. She was holding onto a rope, or something. Gil took her to the hospital to make sure nothing was broken.”

Dr. Whitly stepped away from her to pace alongside the back wall, holding his hands over his face again. “I’m gonna kill him,” he whispered under his breath, massaging his eyes and gritting his teeth.

Despite his visceral reaction to hearing about what happened to his daughter, Dani could tell he didn’t truly mean what he said.

“We don’t know where else to look,” she said, some hopelessness leaking through her strong facade.

Taking a deep breath to reset himself, Dr. Whitly focused on the task at hand, and asked, “How long ago was he last seen?”

“Like forty minutes ago.”

“Okay,” Dr. Whitly continued to pace back and forth, concentrating hard as his mind whirled with calculations. “He couldn’t have gone far, yet. He’d want to leave the city, but he’d want to be prepared. He’s meticulous, and he likes to plan his moves ahead of time. He’d want to stop somewhere and think, gather his bearings, away from everything. Away from noise, people, distractions.” His pacing slowed as he realized, “A park. He’s at a park.”

Hope returned to his face, and it fueled his mind to keep working. He paced faster, with more enthusiasm in his step. “Central. It’s close to Ainsley’s apartment, it’s the biggest park in the city... I need a map.”  He called over to Mr. David, “I need a map of Central Park, please.”

Mr. David began searching for one on his cell phone. 

Dr. Whitly continued pacing, explaining to Dani, “There’s a… a certain grove he likes. He used to take us there when we were little. Where the trees block out all the noise and lights--”

He stopped as he realized Dani was staring at him.

“Oh my God,” she gawked at the man in front of her, recognizing him as,  _ “Malcolm?” _


	21. Restoration

The world was silent here. The city that never slept seemed to be miles away and the glow it cast in the sky was nearly completely blocked-out by the thick branches of the deciduous forest. If he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of the oak and maple trees surrounding him, he could almost believe that he was already deep in the Adirondack Mountains. Almost.

But then a distant siren would wail, and his nerves would prickle with anxiety until the doppler effect ushered the noise even further into the distance. Despite the return of the temporary silence, he was reminded all the same that he was still in the heart of Manhattan.

For now.

A twig snapped, and he jolted awake, unaware that he’d even dozed off. After a few moments of straining his ears, he heard another soft crack in the brush. He doubted it was a park squirrel taking a late night stroll. Standing up from the tree he’d been sitting against, he looked around for the source of the sound, then flinched back as a light blinded him.

“Malcolm Bright, you are under arrest.”

It was the lady cop; a flashlight in hand, along with a handgun.

He squinted with his hands up --not to show that they were empty or to surrender, but instead to block the light from his eyes until his pupils adjusted. “For what?” he snickered. “Loitering?” As his eyes did adjust, he saw that she was alone.

“Identify theft.”

He laughed, lowering his hands. “Identity theft. That’s a good one.” His laughter changed to something more sinister as he claimed, “But, completely ridiculous, of course. I’ve done no such thing.” 

Detective Powell kept her aim true. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,  _ Dr. Whitly.” _

So she did know the truth. Martin briefly wondered how she’d found out, but it didn’t matter. He slipped his hands in his pockets, still wearing a pair of nice black dress pants--now covered in dirt and some fragments of bark-- and his maroon satin button-up. However, it was not completely buttoned up, and his hair was hanging in front of his face again. He was definitely half coming apart.

“How about we not do this at all, hm?” he smiled. “We had a good thing going, Dani. You don’t want to lose that,” he warned darkly.

The detective unlatched the safety mechanism on her gun with a loud  _ click.  _ “Get on your knees,” she ordered calmly.

“Oooh,” he purred, like it was a very tempting and seductive request. “You’re more of the dominant type, aren’t you?”

“Do as I said.”

“You see,  _ I’m  _ usually the one who… likes to take charge,” he explained, sauntering forward. “So… I don’t know if this is going to work between us,” he winced apologetically, taking another step forward.

Dani was not afraid of him. She never was. “I  _ will  _ shoot you, Martin,” she warned strongly.

“No you won’t,” he chuckled, taking another step. A twig snapped under his shoe, and he enjoyed the small, violent sound. “Because I’m not Martin, right now.” He gave her a pained expression, and softened his voice. “I’m  _ Malcolm.” _

“You’re  _ not  _ Malcolm,” Dani growled.

“You wouldn’t shoot  _ Malcolm. _ You  _ love  _ Malcolm,” he lamented passionately, using his costume to the best of it’s performing ability as he stepped even closer.

Dani did not pull the trigger.

Martin dropped his innocent act to smirk at her. “I know you do,” he smiled, then scrunched his nose and whispered, “but he doesn’t know that, does he?”

He could tell by the fortified glare on her face and the wavering of her aim that the detective’s sentiment for the profiler had never been acknowledged. Or returned.

“How sad,” he murmured, disappointed in his son. A bright smile of anticipatory delight bunched his cheeks, and he crooned in a sing-song voice, “Too late now.”

He lashed out at lightning speed, grabbing the gun. The flashlight dropped to the ground, illuminating the grass at their feet. Dani didn’t bother to try to wrestle control of her pistol, knowing she’d lose. Instead, she jumped back to avoid his grasp and let him have the weapon. He turned it on her with a grin, almost too thrilled to contain his excitement at the prospect of killing once again.

“Silly, silly girl,” he laughed breathily, eagerly closing the remaining distance between them as if he wished the gun was a blade instead.

Dani backed up and bumped against a tree, gasping at the unexpected feeling of the bark against her back. He grabbed a tight handful of her thick curls, causing her to grimace and dig her nails into his wrist.

“Now I’m going to ask you to do the same thing you asked of me,” he snarled in her face, the pistol digging into her ribs. “Get on your knees.”

Detective Powell breathed deeply and calmly through her nose, ignoring the burning feeling in her scalp. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

“I will if you don’t listen,” he threatened. “Don’t. Test. Me.”

“Go ahead and pull the trigger,” the lady cop growled, looking up at him with a hint of a smirk on her lips. “I  _ dare  _ you.”

Enraged by her attitude, Martin seared a murderous look into her eyes and dug the gun deeper into her ribs before gladly pulling the trigger.

The gun spat a harmless  _ click, _ empty.

His expression of rage vanished as he glanced down in disbelief.

Her knee jammed so hard into his groin, he was almost too pained to cry out. The heel of her palm struck against his temple next, and she delivered another blow by executing a roundhouse kick to his side as he crumpled to the ground.

Before he had any time to catch his breath or register the pain that sparked through him, she was already kneeling on his back. With expert speed, she brought his arms behind him and secured a set of handcuffs around his wrists.

“You should have listened to me,” she chided with a tilt of her head.

* * *

When the cloth bag was whisked off his head, he blinked against the harsh light of the overhead fluorescents, recognizing the fixtures as those belonging to Claremont. ‘Malcolm’ was thoroughly irritated to come to this conclusion, and even more irritated to find that he was thoroughly tied to a chair in the center of an empty room. His body was still wracked with aches and pains from the brutal arrest he’d suffered in the park. His arrester, the lady cop, stepped away to join the other two people who were staring down at him with their arms folded. None of them appeared very happy.

“It’s  _ SO  _ good to see you all again,” the captive growled in frustration. A heavy sarcasm did a poor job of concealing the hatred in his voice.

“Welcome back, Martin.” Mr. David grumbled. Somehow, deep down underneath his phlegmatic tone, an even heavier sarcasm simmered.

Martin ignored the guard, unwilling to detect any hint of smugness behind his lips. He focused instead on  _ himself _ \--or rather, the man who was his  _ old  _ self. ‘Dr. Whitly’ was standing beside the two authority figures, wearing no chain or tethers, and looking very, very upset.

The false profiler grinned up at him. “Hello, son.”

The false Surgeon did not say ‘hello,’ back.

“Is this your genius plan?” ‘Malcolm’ asked, glancing around at where they were. They were in one of the therapy rooms, but his chair was the only one currently bolted to the floor. The rest were in a stack in the corner. “Hold an innocent person against their will?”

“You're  _ not  _ innocent,” ‘Dr. Whitly’ growled.

“I’ve done nothing,” ‘Malcolm’ hissed.

“You’ve done plenty,” the disguised consultant argued, slowly growing more vexed.

The disguised serial killer gloated, “I have a clean slate, in this body.”

‘Dr. Whitly’ threw his arm out to angrily gesture, “You threw Ainsley out a fucking window!”

“She was  _ fine! _ I just needed to get past Gil,” the captive argued. “I wouldn’t  _ actually  _ hurt her, Malcolm, what kind of father do you think I am?”

“She’s in the hospital!”

“She’ll live.”

‘Dr Whitly’ took a steadying breath. “I can’t believe you.”

“I can’t believe  _ you,”  _ ‘Malcolm’ countered. He nodded over to Dani. “You’ve had  _ this  _ pretty lady waiting on your doorstep this  _ entire time _ and you never invited her inside?”

“Don’t talk about her,” ‘Dr. Whitly’ snapped.

‘Malcolm’ scoffed, “Now,  _ that’s  _ crazy, son. She’s just  _ dying  _ for your attention.”

“Shut up!”

“I’m not wrong!”

‘Dr. Whitly’ stepped forward. “You wanna know why I never took things further with her? Because I’m a fucking  _ mess, _ that’s why! She doesn’t deserve someone as  _ fucked-up  _ as me. But you wouldn’t have thought of that, would you? All you ever think about is yourself!”

‘Malcolm’ cast his glare elsewhere, muttering “That’s not…  _ always  _ true.”

Mr. David and Detective Powell stared at the two Whitlys, their eyes flicking back and forth between them as they bickered.

“This is weird,” Dani whispered.

“Yeah,” Mr. David whispered back. “Real weird.”

“So what happens now?” the false Malcolm asked. “Did you find out how to switch us back? Some… magical phrase, or special incantation? Hook us together and administer some electroshock therapy?”

Nobody had an answer for him.

‘Dr. Whitly’ walked away to pace the room, trying to stir up the cogs in his brain.

“No, I didn’t think so,” the captive smirked. “What happened to us was an act of God, son. If the ‘almighty’ desires for things to be this way, then that’s the way they’re going to be. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

‘Dr. Whitly’ ignored him, muttering, “There’s  _ always  _ something we can do about it.” He’d spent the past two days trying to do something about it, even when all of his options were gone and all hope seemed lost.

“So what do we do?” his stolen identity called, mocking such optimism. “What brilliant, save-the-day solution do you have, Malcolm? I’m all ears!”

Mr. David and Dani slowly turned to look to the disguised profiler for an answer. But, unfortunately, he didn’t have one. He sighed and slipped his hands in his cardigan pockets, facing the wall in shame.

“Well. Guess we’re stuck like this,” ‘Malcolm’ smiled triumphantly. “Me as you.” And even more satisfying; “You as me.”

Dani spoke up to accuse, “Why are you acting this way towards him?”

‘Malcolm’ glanced at her. “What way?”

“Like you hate him,” Dani commented, giving him an expression of disgust and disbelief. “He’s your _ family.” _

“Oh, maybe you should ask  _ him  _ that question,” the restrained Surgeon nodded toward his old self. “He’s the one with hatred in his heart, not me. Even though we’re  _ family.” _

“Shut up!” ‘Dr. Whitly’ snapped, turning towards the group once again.

“What are you talking about?” Dani asked her captive.

“Malcolm knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you son?” the chair-bound boy called. “Oh, that’s right. You’d ‘rather be  _ dead  _ than be my son.’ How could I forget?”

“You know what, dad?” ‘Dr. Whitly’ marched over. “I  _ do  _ have a solution. I’m gonna make  _ you  _ rather  _ you'd  _ be dead, how’s that?” he threatened, lunging for his stolen self.

Mr. David jumped between them, holding his new patient back. “Woah, woahwoah!”

Dani pitched in, “Malcolm, stop!”

The false Malcolm snickered at the scene. “You just want to beat yourself up, huh? For what? For every mistake you’ve ever made? Everything you never got to do, and now you’re stuck here for the rest of your life? Welcome to my world, son!” Every jab he fired only made his duplicate more enraged.

Dani yelled, “Enough, Martin!”

“You’re just mad because I got closer to Dani than you  _ ever  _ were going to!”

“YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!!” ‘Dr. Whitly’ roared, trapped in Mr. David’s arms.

“That’s it! Out! Outside!” Mr. David ordered, promptly pushing his charge out the door.

Detective Powell shot the man in the chair a glare before following the others into the hall.

‘Malcolm’ smiled up at her without remorse.

* * *

“What are we going to do?” Dani asked, folding her arms as she came to stand beside Mr. David.

Through the one-way glass of the observation room, the guard and the cop watched the false Malcolm try to wiggle free of his ropes --with no success-- while the false Dr. Whitly took some time to himself in another room to think of a solution --also with no success.

“We can’t keep,” Mr. David gestured at the glass,  _ “him _ here. And we sure as hell can’t keep them  _ together _ , if they’re just going to fight like this every time they see each other.”

Dani nodded, pondering over what the guard said. After a few moments, she said, “I think I have an idea.”

* * *

‘Malcolm’ watched as the lady cop came back into the room, bringing with her a large full-body mirror on a set of squeaky wheels. She positioned it directly in front of him, blocking his view of the rest of the room and replacing it with a crystal clear view of himself.

He looked like shit.

“Wow,” he mumbled, wincing at the sight of the bruise on his head-- much bigger and nastier than the one he’d earned the previous morning-- and the state of his once-nice, now-grungy clothes. “You really did a number on me. I hope you’re proud.”

“I’m not, actually,” she sighed.

She didn’t look at him. She looked at his reflection.

Martin thought he saw sadness, and  _ pity,  _ in her eyes as she mumbled, “Malcolm doesn’t deserve this.”

She walked away, leaving him with those lingering words.

And his reflection.

As he stared at that mirror, something inside of him lost its buoyancy. His ego, maybe. Or his pride. He looked away from the mirror to salvage it, stubbornly refusing to take in the sorry sight of his son.

Dani returned with ‘Dr. Whitly,’ guiding him to stand behind the mirror. “Don’t say anything,” she whispered, also motioning for him to stay put.

“Why?” he asked.

“Just... wait,” she nodded. “Trust me.”

Malcolm did trust her. He always had.

The detective left him there to look at the blank backside of the mirror, with no reflection to haunt him. He stood there, waiting patiently like he’d been told.

Neither one of them spoke to each other, treating the barrier between them impenetrable, like the Berlin wall.

But, eventually, the false Malcolm twisted in his seat to call over his shoulder to the one-way window, “Whatever you’re trying to do, Dani, it’s not going to work!”

In the observation room, Dani smirked at Mr. David. “That means it’s working.”

Met with no response, the chair-bound Surgeon sighed. It was growing more and more difficult not to look at the mirror in front of him, and when his eyes did helplessly wander to it, he felt his son’s miserable gaze like daggers in his heart. Hesitantly, he studied the reflection. The black bruise on his head. The bits of leaves in his hair. The hunched way he sat, bound to that chair.

His pain was harder to bear when he saw Malcolm bearing it in front of him.

Taking a breath to reset himself, Martin straightened his posture and tried to make his son look fine. He even smiled at himself, wishing to see Malcolm smile, but he saw through the lie.

The truth was; Malcolm was not fine.

And that was Martin’s own fault.

_ ‘You hurt me! Do you understand that? You hurt me!’ _

Martin grit his teeth as he remembered.

_ ‘I am so screwed up because of you!’ _

A fog of exhaustion and defeat settled over him as he stared into that mirror, soaking in the image of his son’s misery.

Finally, he gave in and whispered, “I’m sorry, son.”

Malcolm had been staring at the floor on the other side of that divider. Now, he looked up, shocked to hear what he’d heard. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Malcolm searched the blank space in front of him, listening intently to identify the foreign sound he’d heard. After a moment, he disregarded it. “...No, you’re not,” he muttered, looking down at the floor again. His father  _ couldn’t  _ be sorry, he told himself. He wasn't capable of it.

“I am,” Martin muttered. “You deserve more.”

Malcolm listened.

Martin struggled to avoid eye contact with the reflection of his little boy as he continued, “You deserve to  _ be  _ with someone, Malcolm. You deserve to have real food in your kitchen, and not candy. You deserve to relax, once in a while, and live a normal life, and not consume yourself with work --with chasing after murderers, when we both know all you’re doing is running from…” he stopped, glanced down, and debated finishing.

He was already this far, he might as well just spit it out.

“From me,” he murmured. “From my ghosts.”

Malcolm’s heart thundered in his ears as he stared at the floor. He could not believe he was hearing this. From his father, of all people. Sure, it was all in his own voice, but it was his father saying these things.

Martin cautiously cast his gaze over his son’s reflection again, and his eyes wandered to the spot over the profiler’s abdomen, where he’d discovered that scar in the bathroom mirror earlier.

“You deserve to be free of hurt. And I’m… I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Malcolm closed his eyes and concentrated on controlling his breathing. His father’s words etched into his mind, and he clung to them for as long as his ears rang with their echo, cherishing them and their rare honesty. Their even more rare  _ empathy. _

“I’m sorry that you would rather be dead than be my son.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Malcolm finally said.

Malcolm was not entirely innocent either. He had hurt his father by saying that during their fight the other day. That was partly  _ why  _ he’d said it. To hurt him. Revenge motive delinquency.

But the other part...

“I mean… I  _ did  _ mean it, a little, but…” he sighed. “I don’t feel that way anymore.”

Martin listened to his son.

“I’m  _ proud  _ to be me,” Malcolm said. “I wouldn’t be the person I am, if I weren't your son. If I didn’t see your ghosts.”

Malcolm turned his gaze up to the far ceiling as he picked out his words. “I might not be… as compassionate, or as perceptive… and yes, definitely not as fucked-up, but… I don’t regret who I am. I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m a good person, no matter how much of you I have in me.”

A faint smile crossed the profiler’s face, and he reflected on the therapy session he’d had with Dr. Jones that day. “I know that, now.”

A faint smile crossed Martin’s face, too.

It was the only thing in his son’s reflection that he was not afraid to look at. It was an honest smile. It was a smile that said, _ ‘I’m okay, and I’m happy, despite everything I’ve been through.’ _

“I’m glad to hear that, son.”

They both smiled there, on each side of that barrier between them, relishing in a brief but wholesome moment of healing.

Then, the lights went out.

The entire room blinked into darkness. A low hum, or zap, or even a rumble resonated lowly through the air. They could have sworn the building trembled, like Malcolm's hands usually did --though it happened so quickly, it was difficult to process what exactly occurred.

All they could process (and that was quite a stretch of the word) was that once the lights blinked back on, they were once again themselves.  Malcolm was strapped in a chair, leaves stuck in his hair and a bruise swelling over one side of his head, faced with a reflection of himself. Martin was standing in front of the backside of the mirror, a cardigan hanging from his shoulders and a white inmate uniform over his broad chest.

Mr. David burst into the room and leapt into action. Martin flinched at his entrance and tried to back away, yelping, “No! _ No!” _ The guard nearly tackled him, promptly forcing a pair of handcuffs around his wrists, where they belonged.  _ “Dammit!” _ Martin snarled, giving up the struggle. “Fuck!”

Meanwhile, Dani went to Malcolm, quickly untying him. “You alright?” she asked.

“I’m back,” Malcolm exhaled, overcome with relief and euphoria. “I’m back!” His joy quickly morphed into discomfort as he registered all of the pain he was in. “Ow. You really got him.”

“Sure did,” Dani tossed the ropes away and helped him stand on two very shaky feet. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

They made their way toward one door while Mr. David hauled his patient toward another. Craning his head around to catch a glimpse of his retreating son, Martin prepared to fire a final heated word. But his mind went blank as he saw the lovebirds’ arms over each other’s shoulders, and noticed the caring way in which the detective was helping the profiler through the door.

Maybe, at that moment, he wasn't quite as upset about the reverse Switch. Maybe his predicament was easier for him to accept, after seeing that.

“Come on, Martin,” Mr. David encouraged.

Martin let his son go, and focused on walking. “Did you miss me?” he asked the guard.

“Not one bit,” Mr. David muttered.


	22. Resolution

Malcolm insisted on going to the hospital, instead of going home --and not for his own sake. So, Dani drove him to the hospital. He ran to his sister’s room, the detective right behind him, where he found his family crowded around the reporter. She had two light blue casts fastened around her forearms, and it was clear from the redness on her face and the washed-away makeup around her eyes that she’d cried herself dry.

“Ainsley,” he winced, stepping inside.

She was not happy to see him. “YOU!”

He held his hands up. “Ainsley, I'm so sorry--”

“You threw me out the fucking window!” she screeched.

Jessica’s hands were on her hips. “You lied to me about Gil dating another girl.”

“You told me I ruined everything,” Gil muttered, unable to look over at the boy.

Each sentence tore at Malcolm’s heart. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t… I…” He didn’t know what to say.

“Maybe I should explain what happened,” Dani put her hand on his shoulder and asked, “Give us a minute?’

Malcolm stepped outside, holding his hands over his face to cover the turmoil twisting his expression.

When Dani opened the door and invited him inside again, his family had a mixture of relief and exhaustion on their faces. Jessica immediately hugged him tight and then held his face and sternly ordered him, “Promise me you will  _ never _ take shrooms again!”

He choked through a weak laugh and nodded. “I promise.”

“Oh sweetheart,” his mother brushed his hair out of his face and caressed his bruise. “You really had one hell of a trip, didn’t you?”

He held her wrists and soaked in her love. “Yeah. I did.”

Gil clapped a hand on his shoulder and grumbled, “No more drug experimentation, kid, or you’re gonna drive us to psychedelics, too.”

Unable to hold back, Malcolm seized the lieutenant in an embrace and buried his face into his shoulder. “I love you, Gil. I’m so sorry for everything I said. I didn’t mean it.”

Gil accepted his hug and rubbed his back. “It’s alright. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Does this mean no one’s chasing after you?” Jessica asked hopefully.

“That was a Martin thing,” Dani explained, shrugging. “He was just trying to stir up trouble.”

Jessica rolled her eyes and groaned. “Of course he was.”

Ainsley was not as forgiving. She glowered at her brother. “Shrooms or no shrooms, you could have killed me.”

Malcolm released Gil to take a tentative step towards his sister. “I'm so,  _ so _ sorry I hurt you, Ains.” Doing his best to keep his voice from shaking, he added, “I hurt  _ all _ of you, but I know I hurt you the most, and I’m so sorry.”

Ainsley glared at the wall, refusing to look at him. “Whatever. Just leave me alone.”

Malcolm stared at her with a pained look on his face, desperate to find some way to fix things between them. Dani put a hand on his arm and gave him a gentle look. It was going to take time for Ainsley’s wounds to heal. Reluctantly, Malcolm left with his family, who gave Ainsley a few sweet words of ‘goodbye.’

Ainsley didn’t return any. She stewed in her emotions, alone in her hospital room. Everything was  _ always _ about Malcolm. Every crazy family emergency. Every family therapy session over dinner. Malcolm, and their father. Malcolm, and their father. She was sick and tired of it. This was just another classic insane weekend for the good old screwed-up Whitly family. Why couldn't they ever just be  _ normal? _

She was interrupted from wallowing in her storming thoughts by the entrance of a nurse, a phone in their hand. “Call for you, Miss.”

Ainsley took the phone in her wrapped-up hand --her fingers ironically plastered in the perfect shape to hold a phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, you.”

Ainsley sighed. “Dad, it’s not a good time.”

“Why not? Is everything okay?”

“Just had a bad night.”

“I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Ainsley muttered. “I don’t.”

“Did something happen between you and Malcolm?”

Ainsley hesitated, her expression distorting with anguish. She brought her other wrapped-up hand to her face to try to cover her tears as they began flowing from her eyes once again. “You were right,” she whined. “He went off the fucking deep end.”

“Oh?”

“He threw me out the fucking window!” she wailed.

“Well, that wasn't very nice of him.”

Taking a large, shaky breath, she gingerly threw an exasperated hand up to the ceiling. “Apparently, he was on fucking shrooms or some shit!”

“Is  _ that _ what happened?”

She could hear his grin. Ainsley shook her head and closed her eyes to wall of her tears. “Look, it’s a long story, and--”

“I understand,” he murmured. “Did you break anything?”

“A few fractures,” she mumbled miserably.

“Surgery?”

“No. They put me in some splints.”

“That’s good,” he hummed. “You’ll be just fine, sweetheart.”

She sniffled, soaking in the warmth of his voice.

“Try to forgive your brother, Ains. For what he did.”

The reporter scoffed, “Are you kidding me right now?”

“He wasn't himself.”

“That doesn’t matter, he still--!”

_ “I  _ forgave him.”

“What?”

“We had a little talk, recently. He took back what he said to me, and I forgave him,” Dr. Whitly announced. “You should forgive him, too.”

She shook her head again. “I don’t think I can,” she feared.

“Just try,” he encouraged. “Okay?”

After a few moments, she murmured a hollow, “Okay.”

“And give me a call once in a while, will you?” he added, optimism coating his voice. “Better yet, why don’t you come visit me? You’ll have a few weeks off work with those injuries.”

Ainsley didn’t answer him.

“I’d like to see you again,” he pleaded.

“Um,” Ainsley stumbled through a half-assed response. “Sure. Maybe.” She was too tired to come up with anything better. Like, ‘Hell, no.’

“I haven’t been able to spend time with you like I’ve wanted.”

She blinked in suspicion, finding that phrase eerily familiar.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Martin concluded. “Love you.”

The call ended.

Ainsley gawked at the phone, mentally reviewing their entire conversation --and recognizing nearly every sentence as one she’d heard before.

* * *

Dani sat Malcolm on his leather couch and wrapped him in a blanket before bringing him a glass of water. The candles and the roses that had been in the kitchen were gone, and she’d fetched him new cozy pajamas to change into. However, he held something in his hand that he’d found in his pocket. It was a little clear vial. Empty.

“Did he hurt you?” Malcolm asked, knowing exactly what that vial was.

“No,” Dani answered, gently taking the vial from him and dropping it in the garbage, where it belonged.

Malcolm wasn’t consoled. It was clear that his father had  _ tried _ to hurt her, and Malcolm felt terrible about that. Dani came back to sit with him on the couch, rubbing his shoulder through the blanket. “Stop worrying about me,” Dani ordered. “How are  _ you _ feeling?” He was the one who’d endured a total body switch with a serial killer and been stuck in Claremont for the past two days.

“Glad to be home,” he mumbled. “But… a little shaken-up, I think.”

“Yeah. That’s pretty understandable.”

After a while, Malcolm rasped, “I had his hands, Dani.”

That was probably the most traumatic thing of all. He had the hands that his father had murdered people with. The hands that he’d done  _ who knows _ what  _ else _ to all those people with.

Malcolm knew. Malcolm knew better than anyone what his father had done to his victims.

“Hey,” Dani snapped him out of his thoughts. “You’re not your dad,” she reminded him firmly, shaking her head.

After a moment, she smiled, hiding a small chuckle, “Not anymore.”

The profiler didn't think that was funny, but he chuckled and shook his head too. “Thank God for that.” But God wasn't the one he should be thanking. He squeezed her hand. “Thank  _ you,”  _ he amended, then earnestly emphasized, “Thank you, Dani.”

“Don’t mention it,” she smiled, squeezing his hand back.

They gazed at each other with a humble, honest love in their eyes. “And for the record,” the detective added, tilting her head. “I  _ know  _ you’re fucked-up. I don’t mind that. I’m a big girl, and I can handle a little crazy. So stop worrying about... not being good enough for me, or whatever.”

Malcolm looked down, guilty.

“You deserve to be happy, even if you have issues,” Dani told him, bringing her knuckles to his chin to make him look up again.

Her touch lingered there, and they comfortably hung in the intimacy of the moment. Then Malcolm placed his hand behind her ear, his fingers sliding tenderly in her dark curls, and finally invited her to come in for a kiss.  She gladly accepted.

It was a slow, deep kiss. A kiss between two people who truly cared about each other, not necessarily with anything sexual involved.

It was a kiss that was politely interrupted by the flutter of tiny wings, and the greeting chirp of a parakeet.  Sunshine fluttered down from the rafters and landed on the profiler’s knee, causing them both to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this fic! It was a wild ride!
> 
> If you'd like to check out my other Prodigal Son fics, visit this page: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/works?fandom_id=31672270
> 
> Feel free to comment if you'd like to. I don't bite, so let me know which parts resonated with you and which parts didn't. I love receiving comments and interacting with readers. Please ask if you have any questions, or give me a heads-up if you spy any typos!
> 
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